A Duty Of Care
by mmDerdekea
Summary: Setting: This original story occurs after S3E1 episode "Tick Tock".      Rating: PG, some violence and kissing.     This story can be listed as Hurt/Comfort/Romance/Drama/Comedy  Buffalo Productions owns Doc Martin.  I own my daydreams.
1. Chapter 1

Doc Martin original Fanfiction story—takes place in Season Three, right after S3E1 "Tick Tock". Hurt/Comfort/Romance/Drama/Comedy (really, all five!)

A Duty Of Caring

By mmDerdekea

Chapter One

"'No'," Wendy Alden reported to Louisa, "That's all he said, 'No', and then he closed his door on me. Is there anything you can do?"

It was another Doc Martin failure to support Port Wenn, which both irritated Louise and gave her a heavy heart. She should have been used to it by now, since he had always been consistent in rejecting any helpful role in such activities.

"Well, it's not surprising, is it?" she sighed.

"Not really, the rude, nasty bugger. But, you are friends with him, aren't you…?"

Diplomatically, Wendy let the sentence float into silence. The implication, nonetheless, was obvious. Louise was friends—or perhaps more—with Doc Martin, so wouldn't she have some influence in getting a cash donation for the upcoming Port Wenn Spring Festival?

"I'm not sure, and anyway, he doesn't really listen to me, either."

After a few more ending comments, the two split up and went on their way. Louisa finished a little bit of shopping, picking up cosmetics and toiletries, and, on a whim, a romance novel. It was a lovely late spring day and reading on her back patio seemed very relaxing, and she'd be able to hide from all the tourists starting to visit their picturesque village.

On her way back to her flat, climbing up the road, she saw striding towards her the imperious figure of Martin Ellingham, tall, straight backed, and, of course, frowning. He was clothed in his dark blue fine Saville Row suit, which fit him perfectly, and a quick glance from toes to collar had Louisa acknowledging he always looked good in blue. Martin walked in his usual clipped, tight style, as if even moving through the fresh Port Wenn air bristled him. He carried with him his hefty medicine case, and his portable EKG machine/defibrillator.

When Martin saw her, she liked that he would immediately tend to slow down, almost grow hesitant, and sometimes his eyes changed. Losing their usual judgmental glare, they could become open and earnest, receptive and even kind. Louisa was drawn to them then, and felt like she could jump through his pupils and meet his soul. But, usually if they talked too long, it all went wrong; his curt words growled, his headstrong mood was reasserted, his eyes flared into beacons of implacable rudeness, and she felt abandoned. It was like a Frankenstein nightmare—they always had good intentions when they met to pump life into their stagnant relationship, but usually their words wound up instead electrifying some monstrous creature, pushing them apart. Emotionally, she would leap forward, then withdraw, leapt forward, then withdraw. To Louisa, their relationship was like a temperamental tug of war.

"Louisa," Martin said.

"Hello, Martin." Her eyes went to his medical bag. "Did you see a patient?"

"Yes. Another supposed emergency call from a non-emergent patient simply too lazy to attend my surgery. Very inconvenient."

"It's good, anyway, they weren't seriously ill."

He glowered, probably not at Louisa, but at the general state of…everything…in Port Wenn, and uttered a small grunt.

Gathering her courage, Louisa decided to proceed forward. She opened her mouth when suddenly a young child's ball bounced off Martin's temple, and his head tilted slightly to the opposite side in response.

It might have been funny, if it had not occurred to the humorless Martin Ellingham.

He spun his head around, searching for the perpetrator and found a very small child chasing after the ball bouncing about on the street. While other children burst into laughter, a woman nearby yelled out, "Percy! Apologize to the Doc!" Picking up the ball the blond-haired four year old nodded to his mum, and than ran back to Martin. Staring up at him with bright, wide eyes, the child resembled Cindy Lou Hoo glimpsing up at the Grinch.

"What do you want?" Martin said.

"I'm terribly sorry for hitting you with my ball. I've not got very good aim. I was throwing at my brother, over there." The boy pointed his finger across the street.

The earnest apology using impressively articulate language calmed the doctor a little. He saw the older boy across the narrow street, waving his whole arm like a tree in a windstorm.

"And you're very tall," the boy added.

"Go away. Shoo," Martin said, dismissing him, but in a softer tone.

The child ran over to his sibling to continue playing.

"Lovely of Percy to say he was sorry," Louisa said. "Lovely family, all the Winslows. Very decent and pleasant."

"That child has more language skills than most of the adult population."

Louisa ignored the insult and continued on, "In fact, Michael Winslow, the father, has a wonderful singing voice. The Summer Festival audience always enjoys his performance." Louisa was quite proud of herself for finding a good lead in to her main topic.

"I'd think a choir of pigs squealing might win first prize in a Port Wenn Summer Festival."

"No, we don't allow animals, I mean, unless they are trained to do tricks. But, no pigs."

Martin silently stared at Louisa. He had reached his limit of inane dialogue. "Good-bye." He took a step forward.

Louisa grabbed hold of his arm, "Wait, I heard from Wendy that you refused to donate to the Festival." He espied her hand on his upper arm, and she promptly let go.

"I don't care about the Summer, Fall, Winter, or Spring Festival."

"You should. It's an important part of this community, the one you live in. People would like you to participate in our affairs."

"I have no interest in those people, or their affairs."

"You should care about being involved. You might enjoy it. You might start liking living here. We're not all loathsome, you know."

There it was, that softening of his eyes. "Not all, no."

"So, can I send Wendy around again for a donation?"

"No."

Louisa felt her pent-up frustration burst out. "Martin, why do you have to be this

way? Why can't you at least fake caring about the Festival, and give a lousy ten quid to make the village happy? Do you just go want to go through life like this, seeming to not care about…well, anyone?"

Martin stood there during her tirade, but in the middle of it his eyes had drifted away, up the street. Suddenly, they widened, and with a frantic "God-!" he dropped his equipment to the ground, pushed Louisa forcefully to the side, and took off running into the middle of the road. Louisa turned around and was horrified. A car was coming down the hill very fast, too fast, and there was little Percy Winslow, once more chasing his ball onto the pavement, directly in the path of the barreling car….

Everything happened very quickly. There was a mother screaming, a car attempting to screech to a stop, people dodging out of the way, and a very tall GP reaching down to clutch a very small child…Martin lifted up Percy and nearly got clear of the vehicle, the edge of the front bumper brushing his left upper thigh and hip area, spinning him off balance as his arms held the boy close to his chest, out of harm's way. As Martin landed on the ground, he hit on his side and rolled onto his back, stopping his motion. The car came to a sudden stop, scrapping dark tire lines in the road, twenty or thirty feet away.

More chaos. Mrs. Winslow grabbed her unharmed child from Martin's arms. Martin held onto his hip while a strange woman knelt by his side asking if he was alright. Another woman came out of the car screaming that her husband, the driver, was having a heart attack. She continued prattling on in her hysteria, explaining she had had to reach over and control the car and stomp on the break from the passenger side.

"Bugger!" Martin cursed. He roughly stood up, and the strange woman helped him, but it seemed to Louisa the pain in his hip was quite striking; he hobbled a few feet but couldn't really go further. He noticed Bert and Al standing on the edge of a growing crowd, and yelled to them, "Bert, Al, carry the man to me!" The two obedient Larges immediately ran to the car, and after a bit of organization, lifted the man and brought him to Martin, still in the middle of the street.

"Louisa, bring my equipment!", he called, and she did post-haste. He then told her to call 999 and request an ambulance.

The wife put a little blanket under her husband's head, who was still conscious. She then backed away a little and stood neavy with her two kids wrapped around her waist nearby, watching in fear. Kneeling on the street, obviously in discomfort from whatever hip injury he had suffered, the Doc took out his stethoscope and sphygomometer.

"I'm Dr. Ellingham. What's going on?" Martin asked the man.

"I don't feel so good, Doc." The man was middle-aged and had fine black hair. He was a little bit overweight and was sweating profusely. The Doc noticed the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket.

"Do you have any chest pain?"

"Yeah, and it's shooting a bit down my arm. Came on a few minutes ago."

"What can I do, Doctor Ellingham?" the woman asked.

Martin stared at her for a long moment. "Are you nurse…?"

"Brownlee. I worked with you a few years at St. John's. Surgical nurse then; now trauma nurse. Just here on a visit."

"Right. Good. Get his sleeve rolled up and take his BP." Martin reached for his portable EGK machine and opened it up.

"Do you have hypertension?", he asked the man.

"What?"

"High blood pressure."

"Yes, for a year or so. However, I stopped taking the medications a couple of months ago."

"But kept smoking."

"Er, yeah. The pills, though, you know," he whispered, "they kept me and the wife from being intimate."

"So will your death!" Martin glowered at him, his scowl clearly indicating his assessment of the man's intelligence was frighteningly low. But, Louisa saw him glance at his children nested in their mother's clothes, pale with fear, and it seemed he immediately refocused on the situation and not his judgment of the stupidity of his patient.

They got the vitals and Martin watched the EKG after putting the electrodes on the man's chest. ST elevation-myocardial infarction. Acute Coronary Syndrome. A heart attack.

Martin spoke to nurse Brownlee. "There's aspirin and Clopidogrel in the second middle drawers. Give him one of each." He called for some water from the enlarging crowd and an anonymous woman stepped forward with a water bottle. The man swallowed the pills and then nearly immediately sighed deeply and seemed to collapse internally, his chest deflating as he went unconscious.

The EKG changed into asystole, a medical crisis, a certainty of death if not quickly converted. Martin could not feel a carotid pulse. "Damn!" he said. He sat higher on his knees and began doing CPR on the patient, directing the nurse to get a shot of epinephrine ready for injection. When it was ready, Martin shot it directly into the man's heart through his chest, and continued the CPR, Nurse Brownlee taking over the one breath every fifteen times the Doc compressed the man's chest. Whether from the exertion or hip pain or both, the Doc was sweating himself, several flows of salty water dripping down his face. When nothing changed on the EKG, Martin switched to a calcium chloride injection, also directly into heart tissue, and returned to CPR; this time, after a minute the EKG showed a miraculous switch to a ventricular fibrillation rhythm.

With that, Martin stopped his CPR, grabbed the defibrillator paddles, told the nurse, "Clear the body," and shocked the man, whose chest jumped a little. There was no change in the v-fib rhythm and the doctor and nurse went back to CPR for a minute and then shocked him again. No change again and the process was repeated a third time, until the shock worked and the man's heart converted to normal rhythm.

"Brilliant," Nurse Brownlee said, staring at the EKG readout. "Bloody brilliant. Unbelievable. I was sure he was dead. The statistics of recovering an asystolic patient are really low. You've still got your Midas touch, Doctor Ellingham."

Martin swung his head around to her at that comment, and then put the paddles back. The man regained consciousness after a little bit and was stable until the ambulance arrived. He complained about chest pain when he breathed and Martin told him those were broken ribs from the CPR.

Martin took the packet of cigarettes out of the man's shirt pocket, crushed them in his hand and tossed them onto the road. "Stop smoking! And take your medications!"

The man nodded.

After a few directions to the paramedics, the heart attack victim was loaded into the ambulance and driven away. His wife and kids thanked Doc Martin effusively, earning a grunt in return. The man's family left, driving after the ambulance to the hospital in Truro. At that point, Mrs. Winslow came up to Martin and also effusively thanked him for saving Percy's life, adding, "I hope your hip isn't badly hurt". She received another patented Doc Martin grunt.

It was then that Martin took out some Ibuprofen from his medical bag, his cornucopia of patient survival, and swallowed two or three of them down. After, he once more grabbed his hip and released a slow groan.

"Doctor, perhaps you should get to Truro as well and have that hip looked at. Do you think it could be broken?"

"No."

"Where's your surgery? I could examine it. As I said, I'm a trauma nurse

now."

It was then Louisa noticed a strange look between them, one she could not fathom. It was odd, as Martin glanced away first, which he rarely ever did. "No."

"Could be a hip pointer. Pretty painful those. You'll have a lot of bruising with that."

Ignoring her, he closed up his bag and EKG machine, and lumbered to his feet. His large hand held his hip and thigh, and Martin's sweating and his paleness accentuated Louisa's concern. The crowd dispersed with a smattering of applause and some "Well done, Doc!" type comments, which Martin studiously ignored. One blond haired fellow, whom Doc recognized but did not know or treat, called out "Tosser," which he always did when he passed Martin on the streets.

Louisa came to him as he stood slightly swaying. "My God, Martin, you saved Percy's life, and then the man with the heart attack. That was amazing. You're amazing. Should you go to Truro?" Now the nurse gave Louisa a strange look.

"No."

"You're so stubborn." It wasn't far to his surgery, but it was far enough and mostly uphill. "Maybe you shouldn't at least walk home."

"I can drive you, Doc," Bert Large offered. "Would be like climbing Mount Everest with you staggering about on a bum hip."

To Doc Martin's monosyllabic agreement, he got into Bert's old van and was driven home, his medical bag and EKG machine put into the back compartment by Al. That left Louisa and Nurse Brownlee alone in the street. Louisa had every intention of visiting Martin, but first, a little conversation with Nurse Brownlee intrigued her.

"So…you worked with Martin, did you?" Louisa asked.

"Yes, for several years. Such a gifted surgeon. It was like he was touched by God, or, at least he was a prodigy. From the moment he first held a scalpel, he saved people's lives." She paused. "You call him 'Martin'". I assume you're friends, then?"

If only Louisa actually knew what she and Martin were, it would be so easy to answer that awkward question. "A bit, yes."

"That's nice. Even when Doctor Ellingham and I were lovers, I still always called him Doctor Ellingham. Didn't even seem right then to say 'Martin'."

Louisa's mouth dropped so widely open that in a game of charades it would have been thought she was miming a pelican. And, as if she had turned to some solid statue of shock, her mouth stayed that wide open.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Nurse Marsha Brownlee sat with Louisa at the outside table in the Crab and Lobster Tavern, which is where Marsha had a room for the night, spending the weekend relaxing on the Cornish coast. They sipped on some red wine. Marsha seemed to be around Louisa's age. She was a little taller and a little skinnier, with a larger bust than Louisa's, and dirty blond curls canvassing over her head. She wore tasteful make-up, and was, without a doubt, very pretty, in an elegant fashion.

"So, you've recovered, I take it," Marsha smiled.

Embarrassed by her reaction, Louisa ran her hand through her hair. "Yes."

"I came here with my friend Penny, a pediatric nurse—we're sharing a room—but Penny enjoys walking about and wanted to stroll some miles along the cliffs. I wanted to enjoy the town, and just stare at the view. Lazy, I guess."

"Lucky you were there to help Martin."

"Yes. Brought back old memories." She took a good swallow of wine and Louisa kept herself from grabbing Marsha's arm and demanding the story she had to know. She assumed subtlety was best.

"So…," she started, pouring more wine casually into her glass, "you and Martin..er…have a bit of a history…"

Marsha laughed. "Not really. You know, sometimes hospitals can be like some bloody TV soap opera. Nurses and doctors, working side by side in a high stress job, spend a lot of time together, and do hook up now and then in real life. Sometimes it leads to commitment and marriage, but a lot of the time it's just, well, sex."

"It's odd to think of Martin being involved in that."

"Oh, no, he wasn't. This was around ten years ago. Dr. Ellingham was already renown at the hospital—his specialty was vascular surgery, and he could reattach any vein or artery or capillary which needed reattachment. Fixed a lot of aneurysms. He also was was very competent as a general surgeon, doing a cholecystectomy or splenectormy without even blinking."

"What?"

"Oh, sorry, removing a gallbladder or spleen. Sorry, habit to use medical terms."

"Right."

"I was one of his regular surgical nurses. Dr. Ellingham was a workaholic—operated all the time, ran the Surgical Department, and ensured his patients received excellent care. He had a very low mortality rate. If some crisis occurred, massive car accident, or something, he was oftentimes called in, if he wasn't on duty, to help out. Sometimes, he'd be exhausted and head to a room put aside for those surgeons needing a quick rest; it had nothing in it but a bed. Doctors would retire there for an hour nap or so and then continue with their shifts, if they were doing extra time. Are you sure this is interesting?"

"Absolutely. I'm all ears."

"Alright. Dr. Ellingham was all about work and didn't socialize much. I think he and Dr. Parsons were mates, but he was very private, always reading some medical book or journal on breaks, and complaining about whatever coffee he got from any hospital source. He had a flat in Kensington, and he had this hobby of fixing any kind of watch or clock. We found that out when he volunteered to fix some administrator's broken Rolex, which cost around three thousand pounds. He brought it back the end of the week functioning perfectly again. Oh, he was found fish, but ate lightly and was leaner than he is now. No junk food at all, ever."

"Still loves fish, and fixing clocks is still his main hobby. His only hobby."

Marsha nodded. "Not surprised. I don't think he's a man who likes change."

The understatement since Earth was formed. "Alright, I've got the back history…."

"Now the juicy parts, eh? Look, it was a challenge, a dare, by a group of fellow nurses. See if I could wrangle the serious, and as far as we knew, the celibate, Dr. Ellingham into a little twosome, but it had to occur at the hospital. If I did, I'd win three hundred quid. If not, I'd have to cover every Saturday night shift for two months. I accepted. It took awhile as a lot had to be coordinated. We both had to have the same shifts, and he needed to have worked enough extra hours he required a quick nap, and I had to be on a break myself during that time. But, it all came together one night. I was close to getting my break, Dr. Ellingham had just worked non-stop for fifty hours and had to stay at the hospital even longer. He went to that rest room for a short nap, and I let him sleep an hour, as he really needed it, and then I was free for a half hour. I stood outside the room trying to garner my courage. Finally, I went inside, and woke him up trying to seduce him."

"And?"

"Dismal failure."

Louisa was silent about her equally dismal experience one "Erotomania" night.

"But…I persevered. It took a couple of months but by my fourth attempt, and my

ensuring him I had no expectations of dating or commitment…well, he is a man…and I know a thing or two…" She leaned forward whispering, "We did it. There, in the room." She sat back. "And I won three hundred quid."

"Was that it, then?"

"Well, no. I actually quite liked it. He's certainly got the equipment, knows a woman's anatomy, was sweetly passionate, and turned out to really care that I enjoyed it. It was, surprisingly, quite lovely. It wasn't regular, our "exploits," but over the next couple of years, until I transferred to Imperial, I woke him up every 2-3 months and got a positive response." She leaned forward again, made sure no one was nearby and listening in, and whispered so low Louisa had to lean forward, "He likes it when the woman is on top."

Louisa felt a very strange sensation occur—her face became red hot, almost burning, and she reeled from a dizzy light-headedness. It grew black around her and she could just see Marsha on the edges of her darkening vision.

"Good God, Louisa, put your head down on the table," Marsha's voice echoed in her ears. Louisa followed those directions, resting her forehead on her forearms, and after a minute or two slid by, she slowly starting feeling better. She became aware of Marsha giggling. As her face normalized and her vision cleared, she raised her head. "What happened?"

Marsha offered her a drink of water. "I think you blushed so badly you nearly fainted," Marsha said, still giggling. "Too much blood in your face, stolen from your brain. I'm sorry, but, that's truly hilarious. And, I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I think I can correctly deduce you're not really an unbiased listener."

"No. That's not it at all. I think the wine got to me. I only had a very small lunch."

"Uh-huh. The wine. Definitely."

Marsh's friend Penny stuck her head outside, "Mind if I join you? I'm ravishing and dying of thirst."

Marsha and Louisa welcomed her. Penny sat down, dropped her backpack to the floor and ordered a sandwich and pint. She began regaling them with her hike on the South West Coast Path to Port Quin, the stunning wildlife and gorgeous views she had reveled in-the ragged, irregular cliffs and endless green hills. Louisa's body spent another half hour with the two, as Penny detailed her travelogue, but her mind was quite absent; it was firmly existent in Martin Ellingham's bedroom showing her, in a continual loop, the view of what it might look like to climb on top of him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

What a remarkable day, Louisa thought, as she ascended Manor Road to visit Martin at his home. A hectic input of fascinating events—Martin's lifesaving actions on the pavement, and then, learning such intricate facts about his history. She'd gotten the contact information of Marsha Brownlee and hoped to stay in touch. She was a very pleasant and engaging woman and Louisa would be pleased to maintain their burgeoning friendship.

Marsha had no idea if any other St. John's nurse picked up where she left off. Louisa could not even begin to guess.

It was 7:00 p.m. Saturday night, with a warm breeze coming off the calm sea. She thought enough time had passed to allow Martin to analyze, diagnose and initiate care for his hip, but not enough time to think she didn't care about how he was doing. She hoped her timing was good. However, like Burns had so eloquently written, when it came to Martin Ellingham, the best laid plans can go awry.

She walked to the kitchen door, almost always unlocked, and a little shyly snuck a peep through the window; she saw Martin sitting in his sofa in his living room next to the kitchen, still in a suit, with what appeared to be an ice pack on his leg, and a cane leaning against the side of the sofa. He was enmeshed in what assumed was a medical journal.

She pushed her hair back, and pulled down on her sweater, and then knocked on the door. It was a quiet night and she could hear a brash "Go away!" quite clearly. Testing the doorknob, she found it she could twirl it fully around, so she cracked open the door and leaned her head through. "Martin? Mind if I come in?"

"Louisa," Martin said, in a sort of breathless way. It seemed to Louisa at times that Martin greeted her as if surprised she still existed. "Yes. Come in."

She entered and shut the door lightly behind her. Why did she sometimes feel so small around him? If only she understood herself, or Martin, or their jagged interactions, or their oddly stagnant relationship, then maybe she'd feel more like a mature woman.

"How's your hip doing?"

Martin touched the ice pack. "A mild hip pointer. A bone bruise of the iliac crest. Produces a deep hematoma."

"Ow," she said, in empathy.

"Yes. Ow."

She sat down on the sofa, cryptically attempting to figure out how close or far to sit from him. She settled on two feet apart. His left leg was raised and straight, resting on the coffee table between the sofa and the small cabinet upon which sat his TV.

"Do you need anything?" she asked.

"No."

"Did you have supper?"

"No. Aunt Joan said she'd bring something."

"Do you need a cane?"

"For a few days."

"How did you get it?"

"I phoned Mrs. Tishell and she brought it over."

Everyone but her had or was helping him since his accident. "Well, if you need anything else…"

A very small grunt. He had managed to change suits and was in his grey one, white shirt, with the red tie. It didn't matter which suit he wore; he looked good in all of them. Was it ZZ Top who had sung, "Every Girl Crazy 'Bout a Sharp Dressed Man"? She knew it was obvious that every woman was by no means crazy about Martin Ellingham; in fact, it was usually the opposite. But, to her, those expensively tailored suits sat just fine on him and fit his personality, the good and bad parts, if there were any good parts. She was mesmerized by his eyes, which once again so clearly welcomed her. Those grey eyes had power over her….

"What you did today, saving two lives…"

"An unwatched child and an idiot smoker."

The mirror shattered and the spell was broken. "If you don't care about them, why bother saving them?"

"I care about doing my duty. I'm the GP of this village and any child left to his own devices in the middle of a street, and any irresponsible hypertensive prat who unfortunately enters Port Wenn, fall within my purview."

"So, it seems you don't care about anyone or anything, except practicing medicine, on patients you can't stand. You hate Port Wenn, and helping out the community. You only care about your broken clocks, and, and, diagnosing broken people. What's the point of that, Martin, to have such a narrow experience of life?"

"Because broken people want to be fixed. Did you want to lose your vision to glaucoma? Did you want to pass out again from anemia?"

"That's not my point."

"It is mine."

"You know, you're very emotional for an London Englishman, but it's all the wrong emotions, none of the good ones." Louisa stood up, grabbing her purse and pulling it tightly around her shoulder. "If you need anything I can help with, feel free to give me a call. I do care about you, Martin, while you apparently care about nobody."

"I didn't say that."

"Didn't you?"

"No." Eternity could not have taken longer to pass than the agonizing seconds that ticked by while Louisa waited for Martin to say something, anything. And then, there it was, Martin sighed as if all the breath in his lungs needed to exhale her name, "Louisa…" and he continued, "I—".

A loud pounding came on the kitchen door and it opened wide to Aunt Joan barging in, carrying a covered container of food. "Oh, hello, Louisa. Martin, I've got some chicken here for your supper. I know you don't like eating after 6 p.m., but I had some trouble with a couple of stray ewes I had to track down. They got through the fence, and went into the Pratt's field, and it's likely Phil would fire his shotgun at them, so I had to chase them down." She plopped the container on the large wooden kitchen table, and removed the covering. "Still nice and hot. I'll bring a plate to you. Would you like some, Louisa? I've got plenty."

"No, thanks, I've eaten." She glanced at Martin who she knew hadn't taken his eyes off her throughout all of Aunt Joan's loquaciousness. When he was silent, sometimes those quiet, yearning eyes felt like a warm blanket wrapped around her entire body, a security blanket, protecting her, perhaps saving her from some unknown danger she could sense though never identify. But, then caustic words would spill out of his mouth burning the blanket to ashes, and she was left bare and alone again. She had learned to hate those cycles.

"No, thanks, I've eaten." She glanced at Martin who she knew hadn't taken his eyes off her throughout all of Aunt Joan's loquaciousness. When he was silent, sometimes those quiet, yearning eyes felt like a warm blanket wrapped around her entire body, a security blanket, protecting her, perhaps saving her from some unknown danger she could sense though never identify. But, then caustic words would spill out of his mouth burning the blanket to ashes, and she was left bare and alone again. She had learned to hate those cycles.

"Goodnight," Louisa said to Martin and Aunt Joan, and she stepped outside into the evening sky, graying on the edges like her vision had done earlier. She hadn't been with Martin for more than fifteen minutes, but the air seemed decidedly chillier and she rushed home where she was to be only greeted by a romance novel, and a world of fictional love.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Doc Martin without pain was a grumpy, rude, impatient, and intolerant man. With a large upper thigh and hip bruise, creating a six inch diameter deeply purple swath and a deep bone ache, he was, unfortunately, even worse. Pauline Lamb went on-line to see if Guinness Book of Records had any category for "Most Disagreeable Doctor," knowing that the Doc could handily win that contest. No such luck, though there he was, snapping at some other senior running in fear from his office as he followed, barking instructions, hobbling about on his cane.

"And don't stop the antibiotics before they're all taken. If you hadn't done that, your sinus infection would not have returned in a worse state."

Grasping her prescription, the patient nearly ran out the door.

"Why do patients bother to come, and get a prescription, if they have no intention of following the directions regarding how to properly take them?" Doc Martin asked, to no one in particular, and no one in the crowded waiting room deigned to answer. He turned around sharply and headed back to his office, ducking under the low doorway. "Next!"

A middle-aged man slowly got up, as if he was a prisoner on death row, and it was his turn to be taken away and executed.

"Good luck, Mr. Perry," Pauline said. She then spoke to everyone, "Remember, at least you can outrun him today."

The morning appointments ended a little after noon, and Pauline left to meet Al for lunch. Martin had his surgery to himself, and the quiet and repose soothed him. He finished his chart notes and then stood, allowing a groan of pain to escape his lips. The constant aching decreasing his appetite, he made some soup for lunch, with a couple of pieces of whole grain bread and some Earl Grey tea.

Earlier that morning, Louisa had stopped by very briefly; she had brought him The Times and the local Port Wenn rag. Martin saw he was the headline in the Port Wenn newspaper again, "Local GP Saves Two Lives". He pushed aside the story on his medical heroics, and focused on Times articles containing much more substance.

The phone rang and Martin picked it up.

"Doc Martin, hello, it's me, Carolyn," Carolyn said.

"Oh, god," Martin answered. Carolyn Bosman, Port Wenn talk radio host. "Talk radio" was the medical equivalent of "flesh-eating bacteria" to Doc Martin.

"We'd love to do an interview with you this week. Local hero, and all."

"No."

"Oh, come on, Doc. It would make you look very good." Carolyn said, in a perky manner..

Doc Martin's brash, monosyllabic answer proved what he thought of perkiness. "No."

"We could just do fifteen minutes, instead of the whole hour. Make sure you empty your bladder beforehand," Carolyn quipped.

"No. Don't call again."

"Five minutes—".

Doc Martin hung up on her. Without any more thought about it, he finished his lunch, and spent the afternoon terrorizing and/or upsetting patients while correctly diagnosing their complaints.

Louisa stopped by after work, when Martin was stiffly limping around his kitchen, cooking some fish, potatoes and brussel sprouts. She caught his eye through the window and he waved her in.

"Hello, Martin."

"Louisa, come in. I've extra food if you want supper." He rested on his cane.

"I thought you hurt your left hip," Louisa said.

"I didn't hurt it. The car hit it."

"Yes, yes, but the left side, right?"

"Yes."

"You're using your cane on the right side."

"Proper use of a cane entails holding it on the contralateral side of the injury."

"Oh. I didn't know that. Um, am I disturbing your dinner?"

"Not at all. It needs to cook for twenty minutes. Have a seat."

They sat in chairs at the kitchen table, across from each other. Like one night not so long ago, but no wine was present, and they were both sober.

"Nice write-up in the paper today," Louisa said. "Did you get a chance to read it?"

"I had a chance. But, I didn't have the interest."

"'Doc Martin pulls man back from death'. I'm surprised it didn't go national."

Martin frowned and grunted, a combination Louisa knew he had thoroughly mastered.

"Heard you turned down being on Carolyn's talk radio show," she continued.

"Is there nothing else to do here but gossip?"

"It's not gossip, really, just sharing information. It's what small villages do. So, no radio?"

"No. Not ever again."

"You're not really a natural for it, are you?"

"No."

"Pauline said—"

"More gossip?"

"—That you were at your worst today."

"I diagnosed sub-acromial bursitis, biliary colic, pityriasis rosea and molluscum contagiosum."

"No, not medically. I mean, personally."

"No one comes to a doctor's office for a pleasant chat."

"Yes, they do, here."

"They shouldn't. They come to be diagnosed. That's what I did today very effectively."

"But, bedside manner—"

"—Should always be secondary to an efficient evaluation, proper medical exam, and correct diagnosis."

"Maybe you should take some pain pills."

"I am on them."

"So, if it's not the pain, we're back to you not caring about your patients feelings. Just caring about their bodies. Isn't that what set you up for your development of the hemophobia?"

She knew it was a sore spot and she knew she shouldn't mention it, and she knew it just caused trouble between them, and she knew she seemed callous; she knew it all and something about Martin Ellingham made her say it, anyway. She wanted to say so much more, such different things, but there wasn't never a proper time, never a proper opening, never a proper reason to do so. When she had risked it, on his porch, the night after his drunken admission of love for her, Louisa had been swatted away like a pestilent fly. Her heart still limped around from that pain, and there were no pills or cane to ameliorate it.

Martin's kitchen timer buzzed. "My dinner's ready," he said. He stood up slowly and dragged his left leg to the oven, grabbed his oven mitts, and took out his food. It smelled good. He was certainly a good cook.

"I'll take off," Louisa said, standing.

"You don't have to."

"No, I'll, I'll, go. Bye."

She exited his home, feeling guilty for bringing up his blood thing again, justified in having done so, angry at how he treated his patients, amazed at his medical skills, wanting him so badly, and disapproving of much about him.

It was a complex situation in Port Wenn, she pondered, waving at various people she passed. Martin's patients disliked him greatly but respected he was a brilliant doctor committed to their care. He, meanwhile, hated all his patients, while committed to keeping them healthy and safe. That tug of war analogy arose again. Not only was it related to Louisa's relationship with Martin, but Louisa felt that she was a central pole and each hand held the ropes of a monumental societal tug of war contest. She could not deny her love for Martin, but it was matched by her love for her village and the inhabitants she held dear. She was pulled equally by the two sides, caught in the middle. Was it possible to support and cherish both sides simultaneously, and be peaceful and happy amid the endless traction? She became fearful. If she couldn't do that, if the growing strain grew too difficult to maintain, and risked wrenching her apart, which side would she let go of first, which side would she hold to win? Which side did she care most about? Losing either seemed catastrophic. And where did she and her needs, her wants, fit in between the rope jerking her left and right?

How could she love Martin so intensely, and so often be hurt by him? She wanted to be with him, hold him, and yet he made it so difficult to achieve.

Walking home was like she was strolling on the moon, each step launching her up over the ground, momentarily free from all cares, and then gravity slowly pulled her right back down.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

After two weeks, Doc Martin's hip was doing better. He no longer needed his cane, but the bone was still sore, and the bruises were a mishmash of yellow and green. He stepped lightly on the left side and was very conscious of not hitting his hip into any other object. He had done that once, knocking against the edge of his surgery desk, and it had almost brought him to his knees, tears filling his eyes. Luckily, no patient had been in the room with him.

Pauline came in on time, fresh and ready to go on Wednesday morning. She turned the computer on and got his chart notes piled up on the outer edge of her desk. Patients began showing up; it was a full, busy day for Doc Martin. Some new patients were showing up, people who lived further out by Bude, Port Quin and other villages. No doubt his recent publicity had attracted them to his surgery. Usually his personality quickly chased some of them away, back to their previous GP. The day passed quickly and the last patients sat waiting for Doc Martin, Helen and Sean Scott MacPherson. Helen seemed to want to melt away into the chair upholstery, her eyes not meeting anyone's, and her hands both clutched to her purse. She was around forty-five, and very plainly dressed, her brunette hair turning grey and lacking any style, her make-up plain. Her stern husband, huge and foreboding, sat as if he were king of the room, arms crossed, his eyes suspiciously landing on every individual in the room, scrutinizing if they were a threat. Doc Martin came out with the mother of an adolescent girl. "Pauline, draw a red top tube for TSH, Free T4, Free T3 and thyoid antibodies for Ellen—"

"—Erin," the mother clarified.

The doctor frowned, as if getting his pediatric patient's name correct was a trifling reason to interrupt him. "I'll have the results back in one or two days and will contact you then."

The mother nodded her gratitude, "Thanks, Doc."

Ignoring her, he put the child's chart notes in the file folder and turned around. "Next."

Mr. MacPherson stood up. He was 6'5" tall, two inches taller than Doc Martin, and still had thick, flaming orange hair and a phlegmatic facial tone. Doc's fourteen stone frame was dwarfed by Mr. MacPherson's nearly eighteen stone build. Although he was in his mid-forties, too, like his wife, MacPherson was solid muscle, and his shoulders seemed wide enough to sleep on.

"Oy, let's go," he urged his wife, who stood up almost frantically. With a grunt, Doc Martin got the chart notes from Pauline and led the two into his office.

Martin sat down at his desk and waved for the two MacPhersons to sit on the other side. Martin took out the papers from the folder and spent a minute reading them, then looked up and asked, "What's your concern today?"

MacPherson answered, in a thick Scottish brogue, "She's weak and idle and coughing. Don't do her duties at home."

Doc Martin eyed MacPherson and then turned to Helen, "How long have you felt unwell?"

MacPherson cut in, "Almost three weeks now; had a cold and won't get over it. House is a bloody mess. She's not doing the cleaning," He pointed to his shirt. "I've had to wear this shirt now for three days; no laundry done in a week. She's not feeding the pigs, or chickens, neither."

"Any shortness of breath?"

Helen didn't speak until MacPherson ordered, "Answer him."

"A little." It was like a mouse speaking, a timid squeaking voice. It was as if she was terrified of being noticed.

"Any pain when breathing?"

"With a deep breath."

He asked a few more questions, and when the data was accumulated, Martin stood and came around the table. "Please sit on the exam couch," he directed Helen.

"What for?" MacPherson asked.

"I need to do a physical exam. I think she might have viral pneumonia."

"Then just give her the antibiotics and we'll be gone."

"Antibiotics don't work on viruses and I can't prescribe anything without doing an exam."

MacPherson used his thumb to point in back of him to the couch. "Go on, get over there."

Doc Martin took her vitals, and then asked her to remove her blouse. After MacPherson approved, she did so, folding it on her lap, leaving on her bra. Doc Martin noticed the bruises on her lower arms, and on her back.

"What are these?"

MacPherson turned around for a glance. "Ach, she's clumsy, isn't she? Fell downstairs."

"I'm not sure I understand how one can bruise their forearms falling downstairs."

"That's what happened. It's not important. Do your physical on her."

Martin did a complete respiratory exam and gently told Helen she could put her blouse back on. He came back to his desk, placing his stethoscope on it and sitting in his chair.

"I'd like to talk to your wife alone," he said. Pointing his head towards the door, he told MacPherson, "Please wait outside."

"No. I stay where she stays. Say what you want to both of us."

"I prefer you leave. It will only take five minutes."

MacPherson stood up, powerful and angry; he slammed his fist onto Doc's desk, which made the physician jump back in his chair. MacPherson yelled, "Just tell me what's wrong with her, and what's to be done! She's got chores to do and she better do them soon. She doesn't need any alone time with you."

Martin capped his pen. "I see." Helen, dressed, had slid off the table, coughing into her hand. She stood pale and speechless, as if she was the ghost of a person, yet still alive. "She has viral pneumonia, also known as walking pneumonia. Her fever, chills, nonproductive cough, muscle aching and clear mucous discharge clearly indicate that. She has decreased breath sounds over his lower posterior right lobe, and audible rales. I'd like her to get a chest x-ray, and will write an order for that."

"She doesn't need an x-ray. Just give her some medicine."

"There aren't very good medicines and I'm not sure which virus is infecting her. I could assume an adenovirus, but without further testing, it's just an educated guess."

"Then treat her for that."

"Mr. MacPherson, there is a proper way of doing practicing medicine—"

"—So practice it, and we'll be gone!"

Martin frowned at MacPherson, and then saw his wife, weakened from illness, behind him. He was powerless at the moment but his mind raced ahead making other plans he already internally had committed himself to follow.

He grabbed his script pad and wrote out a prescription. "Ribavirin—covers some but not all viruses associated with viral pneumonia. Take it to Mrs. Tishell. Helen, you'll need full bed rest. Call me if you worsen."

"We've no phone." MacPherson ripped the script out of Martin's hand. "Good. Helen, get going, woman." With a last vile glance at the doc, MacPherson followed his wife out of the surgery.

Martin finished Helen's chart note and came into the waiting room, empty but for Pauline Lamb. "Not exactly Santa Claus, is he?" she said. Martin filed his chart notes as Pauline continued talking. "Do you know who he is?"

"No."

"The boxer. Heavyweight, of course. "SS" MacPherson, he was called. Stood for "Sean Scott", his name, and "Speedy and Strong" which he was as a boxer, and also SS, like the Nazi's Gestapo. Always been a nasty, violent bastard. Poor wife."

Martin turned to her. "He beats her."

"Has for years, I think. II heard Doc Simms tried to talk to him about it once, but MacPherson dragged his wife out and they never came back to him."

"Where do they live?"

"Oh, way out on the moor, where all the nutters live. No phone, either. His sister lives there, too, and I heard she's a right old witch. You can't get close to the house, "No Trespassing" signs plastered about everywhere."

"Hmm."

"They come to town once a month, the first Saturday. Sit in the Crab, have a drink, don't talk to anyone, and leave."

"First Saturday of the month is a week from this Saturday."

"Yeah."

"If Helen is better…." Martin mumbled, and then turned and limped quickly back to his office.

"Uh, good-night, Doc," she said, just as his door swung shut. "Have a fun evening."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Doc Martin did his own fact-finding exploration on Friday. Booking out his last afternoon patient spots he took a long drive in his Lexus out into the Bodmin moor and after some difficulty, found MacPherson's home. He turned into the long driveway path but Sean MacPherson ducked out from behind a hedge, shotgun in hand, aiming it directly at Martin's windscreen. Martin screeched to a halt, thankful only that his airbag had not expanded. His heart pounded in his chest; this was no addled but harmless forest ranger. This was a raging mad man.

MacPherson continued aiming the shotgun as he walked to the driver's side window and then pointed it at the car's tires. Martin lowered his window.

"I thought I'd come visit Helen and see how she's doing."

"There's 'No Trespassing' signs up."

"Yes, but I'm not here to sell or steal anything. Just to do a house call."

"I don't like visitors. Any visitors."

"Yes, but your wife—"

"—Is doing better. That drug is working. Now, get out of here." He clicked back both triggers. "Or else."

Martin backed up and returned to Port Wenn. There was no way of contacting Helen via phone or in person. He was forced to do something more drastic.

It took a couple of days to do his research and find the organization in Truro he needed to contact. But, he got hold of Margaret Middleton at the West Cornwall Women's Aid and explained the situation and his unusual plan. Working closely with Mrs. Middleton, they arranged with the Truro Housing Options Team to reserve a spot for Helen MacPherson so she could seek safety in their battered women's shelter, and escape her domestic abuse.

Now, Doc Martin just had to get her there.

He researched MacPherson's boxing history on the internet with his laptop. He had had a successful career for eight long years, throughout his twenties. He'd made some money, but got into trouble with the law after seriously harming a man in a bar fight, went to jail, and decided to retire after his release. He married Helen Simpson, a Cornwall woman, and they had moved to Bodmin moor to farm. That's where the internet information ended.

He studied Sean MacPherson's chart notes and learned he suffered from benign prostatic hypertrophy and, thus, frequent urination; that was a weakness Martin believed he could take advantage of. It might not be wholly within his Hippocratic Oath, but Martin felt no guilt. MacPherson had, after all, not yet established him as Martin's official patient; only his wife had.

He went to the Crab and Lobster and spoke to the owner, Mark Bridge, about the monthly visits of the MacPherson's to his bar, where they sat and what they drank. He learned MacPherson had just one half pint, his wife a sherry; they drank them and left. Martin requested Mark change MacPherson's normal drink half pint to a full pint, telling him was a special that night, full pint for half pint price. Martin would cover the extra cost.

He spoke to Pauline after work on Monday, giving her instructions for the upcoming Saturday night, how she would be teamed with Mrs. Middleton and how they would abscond with Helen at the right time and drive her to Truro. Pauline enthusiastically agreed to her role and the vital need for silence. The only exception to her vow was to tell Louisa to be at the Crab Saturday night around 8:00 p.m., without giving any more information. Naturally, Louisa's curiosity was piqued.

Martin spoke to Al Large on Tuesday, also got a vow of silence, and handed Al a wadful of two hundred quid, to be used to buy drinks for everyone in the house.

He spoke to PC Penhale, asking him to be at the Crab and Lobster in whatever full regalia he had as a policeman from 8:00 p.m. on, and warning him that MacPherson would likely enter a rage at some point. Penhale noted in a later visit with the Doc, "He's a violent man. I used police computers to look him up. Did you know he served six months in prison for beating a man into a coma sixteen years ago."

"Yes."

"I hope you realize you are stirring up a hornet's nest, Doc."

Martin considered that warning and walked to the leisure center on Wednesday, looking for Alan Gibson, the karate expert and lay adolescent psychologist.

"He's out of town for a week. Gets back on Sunday."

That was bad news. Gibson was the only other 6'5" man in town, and he would likely have been able to stand up solo against MacPherson. He ignored Melanie Gibson's spritely wave on his way out.

After lying awake in bed that night a few hours, Doc Martin strode to the Platt next evening when the fishermen came in with the day's catch. He saw Eddie and Gloria Rix by their truck, loading things in it.

"Mr. Rix, may I speak with you, please?"

Eddie turned around and saw Doc Martin there. Had he just asked a nice question? Eddie looked around and saw no one else nearby. "That you, Doc?" It was kind of like The Hulk stopping to pick dandelions.

"Yes. I need a word."

Gloria showed concern. "Nothing medical is it, Doc. I mean, we've, uh, been very careful lately…"

Martin frowned. "No." He had no intention of discussing their sadomasochistic sexual habits.

"Gloria, shh, we're in public," Eddie said. He climbed down from the truck bed, and Martin directed him to a more private area.

"Yeah, doc, what do you want?"

"Are you friends with the other fishermen?"

"Sure, known them all for years. They're mates of mine."

"I have a favor to ask."

"Really? Huh. What is it?"

"I'd like you and as many fisherman as you can arrange to show up at the Crab and Lobster Saturday night, at 8:00 p.m., for possibly a couple of hours."

"Odd for a doctor to encourage his patients to spend an evening out drinking."

"It's not that. PC Penhale will be there as well."

"I don't quite follow."

"You'd be there for…protection. SS MacPherson—"

"—MacPherson? The ex-boxer?"

"Yes. MacPherson will be there and may get angry…at me."

"Well, half the village gets angry at you fairly regularly, Doc."

"Yes, but there is a possibility he may act on it.

"But, we're fisherman, not body guards."

"Yes, yes, I know. But, you're stronger than the average villager and in a group might help contain him if he rampages."

"I don't know, Doc. Why would he rampage?"

"Don't tell anyone. He's beating his wife and I'm arranging a way to get her to safety."

"Wife beating? That quiet Helen? Well, no fisherman would allow that!"

Martin knew Eddie would allow his wife to beat his chained, cooperative body, but mutual consent meant everything.

Eddie nodded his head thinking the situation through. "We'll be there, Doc. Don't worry. You can depend on us."

Then it was all set. He had organized all he could. Martin walked away rubbing his aching thigh. Suddenly there was a large crash and Martin turned around to see another fisherman lying under a pile of crates and fish, grabbing his shoulder as he cried out in pain. Martin shuffled quickly to the injured man on a complaining hip. Suddenly, depending on the villagers cast a shadow on the whole affair. Nonetheless, for him the die was cast.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Louisa Glasson wondered all week about what was going to happen on Saturday at the Crab. It was odd that Pauline had told her to be there with the brief explanation of, "it was a Doc thing," but then touched her nose and said "Mum's the word". Not saying anything herself, Louisa had had her ears pricked up to every conversation when she was out shopping, or having lunch at Bert's (the town's best fount of information), on a walk, or meeting with the Summer Festival committee. She heard nothing, not a clue, about Saturday night, or any "Doc thing." Louisa didn't even know if the "thing" was organized by Martin or was some event designed for, or to, him, and if it was the latter, she worried it had an ominous portent.

After a couple of failed days of gathering any other intelligence on the subject, Louisa seriously considered quizzing Martin. But, that might cost Pauline her job, and she didn't want to be responsible for any negativity between her and Pauline. Having Roger Fenn hate her was enough! Besides, Pauline was a good influence in the office, helped with the blood issue, and kept things grounded.

Louisa was forced to spend her free time that week in lackluster activities constantly watching the slow moving clock. She finished her romance novel with the struggling hero and heroine finally together forever, and wistfully realized that fictional characters get all the luck.

If she was an author, and she created a character named Louisa Glasson, looking for love, she wondered what type of man she'd pair Louisa with. It was too cliched to say tall, handsome, strong and silent—and she realized that Martin was three out of those four, already, and although he wasn't handsome, he was attractive enough for Louisa. So, he was essentially four out of those four. But, as an author she'd also make him emotionally open, and able to have a conversation about, well, normal things. He'd be patient, and sympathetic and caring.

Caring. Martin was enigmatic about caring; it seemed all mixed up inside about what he cared about. Patients…his medical career… Louisa…what did they all truly mean to him? It was here that if she was an author, writing their story, she'd suffer the world's worst case of writer's block.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Generally a quiet day, on Saturday afternoon, Doc Martin found himself incredibly busy with incredibly annoying patients. There were injuries he had to attend, including a bloody one requiring stitches that initiated a quick vomit; a broken leg requiring an ambulance; and of all things "an emergency" twenty minutes out of town which actually turned out to be a stubbed and broken toe he simply covered with buddy tape, stalking off before anyone could thank him or spit out "Tosser." One person inconveniently decided to have a wicked migraine, and another, presenting with mild fever, a facial rash on both cheeks and muscle pains, seemed to be coming down with Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. "Early auto-immunity is not life-threatening," he said, "You could have waited until Monday."

He called Pauline to relay he was running late, and Pauline passed it on to everyone else involved in the scenario, as well as Louisa.

Thus, Louisa noticed it was a little after 8:00 p.m. when Martin finally strode through the short entry and entered the tavern. His face was like a hard burl, fixed in a glare Louisa doubted even a visit from a radiant angel could soften.

Louisa watched as Martin put down his medical bag in a corner, and took a few seconds to appraise the situation. She felt like a spy, somewhat, but her watching him seemed innocent enough.

He first glanced at a couple alone at a table, a very large man, huge, with pumpkin colored hair, and a woman Louisa assumed was his wife, demure and folded into herself. The man had a pint in front of him and the woman nursed a sherry. They sat there stiff, not speaking to each other, unaware of any other inhabitants in the bar.

"SS MacPherson and his wife Helen," Bert whispered in her ear.

Sean MacPherson, the ex-boxer, who lived on the moor, and had put a man into a coma? Louisa's heart skipped a beat. What was Martin doing with him?

Martin's eyes wandered from the couple and Louisa's stayed on him.

He saw PC Penhale, who made some idiotically strange hand gestures, as if sending him a coded message, but no one ever figured them out. Penhale was in his full police get-up, his belt full of all sorts of containers. He even had a long baton hanging off his side. Was he prepared for a riot? Martin then got a miniscule, hidden wave from Pauline, who sat at table with a well-dressed middle-aged woman Louisa didn't know. Martin last looked through the crowd and saw the outside table on the back patio was filled with drinking fishermen laughing and hooting.

Time passed uneventfully for a while. When the huge man's pint glass was nearly empty, Martin made a brief phone call. Seconds later, around 8:40 p.m., Al Large came into the tavern waving money around. "Oy!", he yelled out, silencing the bar crowd, "I won the lottery, didn't I! Drinks on the house!"

A cheer went up and right away a waitress put another full pint down in front of MacPherson, and another sherry in front of Helen, almost, Louisa thought, as if she had been mysteriously prepared for Al's generosity. MacPherson at first waved it away, but when the waitress informed him 'It's free. On the house," he accepted it and gulped a fair portion. His wife, who had finished her dainty sherry, made no moves toward the new one. MacPherson gruffly directed his wife to imbibe, 'It's free, woman, drink it," and she took some sips.

Around 9:00 p.m. the man was done with most of the second beer and after another swallow, put it down. "Going to the loo," he told his wife, and he stood up, and it was then that Louisa saw Martin's eyes narrow, and he made one tiny nod to Pauline.

Everything happened very quickly after that and as if they were in the movie "Rashomon", people in the bar remembered the details in several different ways. As soon as MacPherson left the main bar area, Pauline and the middle-aged woman dashed over to Helen, sat by her and spoke to her very quickly. Helen was clearly over-whelmed by the attention, the words, the frantic energy. Pauline picked up her purse and she and the other woman grabbed Helen's arms and lifted her out of her seat. Although Helen struggled lamely against them, shaking her head in apparent terror. "He'll kill me!" she cried.

"No, he won't touch you ever again. I promise," the older woman said, leading her from the table. Helen was visibly shaking and had little real fight in her; almost as if she was programmed to follow any direct order, she was successfully scurried out of the bar.

Al followed them and was briefly gone, returning in a couple of minutes with a wink to Doc Martin, just as MacPherson returned to the main bar area. MacPherson froze at the sight of the empty table. He spun a full circle searching the bar area for her. Two women were heading towards the exit together, chatting merrily, and he called out to them, his voice thundering through the low crowd noise, "Oy, you two women!" The women stopped, and turned around, eyebrows raised in confusion. "See if my wife is in the loo." The women looked lost and afraid, and when Doc Martin shook his head and waved them on, they hurriedly left the bar.

Doc Martin stepped up to MacPherson. "She's not there. She's gone."

MacPherson's long arm ended in a tight pointed finger inches from Martin's chest. "You! Bloody quack! Where's my wife?"

Martin glimpsed at PC Penhale, and then flicked his eyes to the patio, trying to convey to the daft cop he should organize his forces. Penhale simply stood watching.

"She's left the bar," Martin said.

"I see that!" His voice barreled throughout the tavern, and everyone else stopped talking, turning to watch. The only other sounds were a few guffaws from the oblivious fishermen on the patio. "I didn't give her permission to leave. She should be there. She had no allowance to move."

"She left anyway. She's gone to safety."

"Safety? What do you mean? I'm her husband. I own her. I tell her what to do. She's "safest" when she's with me, doing as I tell her."

"No, she's not."

"Where is she?"

"She's being driven to a shelter. I won't tell you where."

"What type of shelter?"

"One for battered women."

"She's not battered! She's willful! And when she's bad, and doesn't listen to me, I teach her how to act right. Just like the Bible says."

"She's gone, MacPherson. I hope you never see her again."

You bastard! Can't be many cars leaving the village at night. I'll go follow anyone leaving on the main road."

He dashed outside, quicker than anyone would have thought his mass could move. He wasn't gone a minute when he came back in the tavern, even madder than before.

"Who slashed my tires?"

No one answered.

He came back to Doc Martin, "Did you do it?"

"No."

"Liar! You did, too! And, you kidnapped my wife, you stole my property."

"Property? You talk as if she's chattel!"

"She is! She does as I tell her, or suffers the consequences. The Bible states that woman should obey man. And no others should interfere with how I run my household. You had no right to take her!"

Martin burst out, "Right? I had every right in the world! Helen MacPherson is my patient, and I be damned if I allow her to suffer continual abuse from the despicable brute she is forced to call her husband! I have every medical and legal right to bring her to safety, far away from you!"

What happened in the next minute became embedded in the social history of Port Wenn. There was a snapping sound, a high pitched "smack", and while no one had seen the punch thrown by MacPherson, Doc Martin's head twisting sharply and his resultant lurch to his left clearly illustrated who had been the recipient.

It was hard to fathom exactly what happened second by second. Folks recalled seeing Penhale fight through the crowd to get to the boisterous fishermen. They recalled Doc Martin hitting the wall and MacPherson appearing right there, his rapid movement too quick almost to visualize. There were some blows against the Doc's chest, but how many, no one could tell. There was another smack and Doc Martin lurched now to the right, catching himself on a small bar table, and those sitting around it pushed their chairs back and grabbed their jostled drinks. There was another one or two blows to the Doc, who then fell backwards onto the table. Either MacPherson's right or left hand was wrapped around the Doc's neck, and his other hand was held in a fist over the Doc's head. Martin had his hands on MacPherson's forearm, unsuccessfully trying to remove the chokehold, but then the fist struck, and the Doc's arms flopped lamely to the table, as he fell unconscious.

Just as MacPherson closed both hands around the Doc's neck, a swarm of fisherman landed on his back, with PC Penhale among them. Ten, twelve, fourteen hands strove to pull MacPherson's hands off Doc's throat, as the Doc's face turned dark red. The fisherman were able to pull MacPherson backwards but as he did not release his grip, Doc Martin slid off the table, held upright by his encircled throat, his knees bent below him on the floor, looking like a macabre doll in a grotesque marionette show.

It was then that Louisa Glasson went Bodmin.

She wasn't even aware of what she was doing when she ripped the baton out of PC Penhale's belt and started swinging it up and down, up and down on any hand or arm near Martin's throat. Fishermen danced back rubbing their arms as they became victims of her rapid strikes, and still she hit and hit again, until just two forearms and hands were left. She kept bludgeoning them in a berserker rage, shrieking, "Get off! Get off! Get off!", and finally MacPherson was forced to cry out and release Martin's neck.

Martin's body collapsed onto his knees and fell sideways to the floor as the fishermen and Penhale attacked MacPherson again and with all six or seven or eight of them, pulled him back. Someone yelled, "Penhale, use your handcuffs!" and a light went on in Penhale's head and he pulled the never used cuffs out of their container. Even though MacPherson pushed and fought, their weight worked for them, and he was soon forced to his knees, his hands pulled behind him and cuffed tightly. "You're under arrest," Penhale announced. "for a violent attack on a citizen and attempted murder."

MacPherson let loose with a stream of vulgarities.

Louisa was not aware of any of that. She had dropped the baton and gone to Martin's side, as he lay on the tavern floor. A large crowd gathered around him and random voices were heard.

"Wow, what a beating."

"Is he alive?"

"Of course he's alive," Louisa snapped. She placed a trembling finger against his neck, and thanked God she felt his robust carotid pulse. His face had returned to a normal color, but was bruised and a few areas were swollen. How many blows had he received? She didn't know but one blow was one blow too many. Someone handed her a small seat cushion and she slipped it under his head. Bert dumped a glass of water on the Doc's face. "What are you doing?" Louisa asked, her clothes splashed.

"Works on TV," Bert said, shrugging.

With a long low groan, Martin began waking up.

"Ah, see?" Bert smiled.

"Martin! Martin!" Louisa said.

His eyelids blinked several times showing he was returning to consciousness. Asking for assistance, she turned Martin over onto his back and straightened out

his legs.

He didn't look too good: his lower right lip was swollen and some blood came out of his mouth; there were developing bruises on both his temples, and his right eye was already noticeably swollen.

"Should we call an ambulance?"

"I suppose the doc can tell us."

People were excited and talking loudly. "Please be quiet!", she begged as she

kept calling his name, her hand tightly clutching his. His eyes opened but were unfocused; his pupils moved but he didn't seem to see anything.

"Louisa?" His voice raspy and harsh.

"Yes, Martin, I'm here."

"What happened?"

As she started speaking, Martin, apparently tasting, or smelling, the blood in his mouth, gagged and then turned his head and vomited onto the floor. Not much came up, some blood and thin stomach fluids, and he retched again and then stopped. He weakly wiped his mouth. His eyes were clear then, and they roved over the established crowd all looking down at him.

Louisa didn't need telepathy to know being the center of attention in his feeble state was anathema to Martin. "Please, some air," she said and most of the crowd reluctantly dissipated. Motioning for Al and a couple of the fishermen to come over, they were able to raise the Doc, amid his cries of pain, and get him sitting in a chair. Martin's right hand clutched his left side tightly. Someone held out a little white towel and Louisa took it and dabbed at Martin's lip until he pulled his head away.

"Sorry," she mumbled. He was writhing around in pain. "Martin, what area hurts?"

"Multiple sites on my torso," he said, grimacing. He bent forward searching for some antalgic position. "Did he hit my back?"

Different people answered, "Yes,", "No," and Louisa finally declared, "Perhaps. It all happened rather fast."

Bert chimed in, "You're lucky you're even alive, Doc. We'd be burying you tomorrow probably if Louisa hadn't gone Bodmin to save you."

Martin didn't respond but Louisa did, "Bert, go have a pint."

"If I must," he answered, waddling off.

Mark Bridges came by with a couple of shot glasses. "Fine malt whiskey, Doc. Drink it down."

The almost teetotaler physician took the shot in his left hand and swallowed it, and followed it with the second one offered. It seemed to help Martin relax a little, but he was still obviously in gross discomfort.

"Should we call an ambulance?" Louisa asked.

"No."

"If it wasn't you but a patient, would you call an ambulance for him?"

Before the Doc could answer, MacPherson, being manhandled by Penhale and the fishermen yelled, "I'll kill you, Ellingham! When I get out I'll find you! You're a dead man! You had no right! No right at all!"

Penhale said, "We're taking him to the jail in Bude tonight. They've got a holding cell."

MacPherson fought and struggled the whole way out. A rabid dog would have been easier to handle and there was vocal praise for the men who with great effort controlled him.

Al scratched his long sideburns. "Well, doc, aside from the ending, it all worked out as you planned. I feel bad my knifing his tires set him off so much."

"I was outside watching them arrive."

Martin seemed to have even less desire to talk than usual, as he leaned forward with his eyes closed.

"But, Martin told you to flatten his tires?" Louisa asked.

"The Doc orchestrated everything that happened tonight, even knowing MacPherson might go wild ape as a result. Too bad the fishermen weren't paying attention to anything but their pints."

Louisa stared at Martin—who _was_ he? To do all this for a patient, when he sees them just as diagnostic puzzles? It made no sense to her. How did it make sense to him?

Martin took his prescription pad and pen out of his pocket and with difficulty wrote out a presciption for himself. An accommodating fellow agreed to run it over to Mrs. Tishell, and have her fill it off hours. He dashed out and when he returned thirty minutes later, the Doc was still in the chair, a little more recovered, but not much. Martin swallowed a couple of the strong pain killers with water as soon as they arrived.

"Do they mix well with alcohol?" Louisa asked.

"No."

"But, what about the whiskey shots you drank?"

He shrugged.

"Are you sure I shouldn't call an ambulance?" she enquired for the fourth or fifth time. "Or, at least drive you myself to Truro?"

She saw Martin hesitate. She imagined he was diagnosing himself as he sat hunched in the chair. He was holding his ribs, could one be broken? Louisa herself though he had been punched over a kidney; isn't that extremely dangerous? Couldn't some bone be broken with his facial bruises? At least she was relieved his lip had stopped bleeding, which was good, as it would likely mean no stitches necessary and a cessation of vomiting.

A hesitation was nearly a declaration of agreement, as Louisa interpreted it.

"Alright then," she said, taking Martin's cell phone of out his trouser breast pocket.

Silencing the bar crowd noise again, a man ran into the Crab, calling out "Doc Martin? Doc Martin?" He saw the Doc in the chair immediately and ran over to him, and in his concern didn't even see Doc Martin's overt injuries. "I called your surgery and then went there, but no one answered my pounding. I heard you were in here by some people passing by. You've got to come with me. My boy, Willy, he's three, he's had a fever for a couple of days. We're not nervous, my wife and I, so we let it go. But, this evening, he's complaining his neck is very sore." The man choked back a sob, "My brother, John, lost a son to meningitis when he was just an infant. Please, you've got to come and see how my boy's doing."

Martin didn't move for a few moments.

"He can't go, Bill—," Louisa said.

"—I'll go," Martin stated, and began a process of attempting to stand which would have failed if Al and Eddie Rix hadn't been there to help. On his feet, he didn't look too steady, and everyone waited for him to tilt over, but Martin didn't and instead began to move stiffly forward. Someone held out his medical bag which Louisa swiftly grabbed.

"My car's parked outside," Bill said, "We live on the north edge of town."

Bill was nearly jumping with anticipation, but Martin's pace was turtle-like, Louisa and Al on each side, just in case he stumbled or fainted. He had gone a few feet when a voice once last time that evening filled the tavern, quieting it, "Doctor Ellingham!"

That stopped Martin; no one in Port Wenn ever called him by his preferred formal physician title. With a polyphonic series of grunts, he turned around, and looked out the various villagers still thickly populating the bar, facing him, drinks in hand. A man, name unremembered, but he had psoriasis, continued, "Doctor Ellingham, your personality is absolute crap…but, you're the best damn doc Port Wenn's ever had."

The group cheered and raised their drinks to him, including, of all things, the blond hair "Tosser!" fellow.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Louisa had gone with Martin on the house call and stayed with Bill's wife Melissa, and their two other, older children, still up with all the hubbub, as Martin slowly and stiffly examined the ill child.

Martin's diagnosis was an upper respiratory infection, viral, which had spread into the neck muscles of the child, which happens now and then with URIs. No meningitis. It brought joyous relief to the household that Martin did not participate in. Louisa saw the exhaustion growing in Martin and encouraged Bill to drive Martin home immediately.

She carried his bag as he unlocked his front door and they entered his home.

"Will you be alright?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Where should I put this…?" she held up his medical bag.

"In my surgery." She did so and came back as Martin was starting to climb the

stairs.

"Can you get up those?"

"Yes."

"Do you need any help?"

"No."

"I'll visit tomorrow morning. I'm going to call Joan, too. You did a good thing,

tonight, Martin."

Martin silently climbed each step as if they had a thick layer of super glue on top of them and lifting each leg occurred only as a result of breaking an intense pull on his foot. He leaned heavily on the railing. She could hear his deep breaths with each movement up. She watched him get halfway and then went to his kitchen to ensure the door there was unlocked. When she returned to the stairs, he was still climbing them.

"Good-night!" she said. Louisa locked the door from the inside, and pulled it shut as she left. It was late and she was tired, and it was time to get back to her apartment. Yet, she stood motionless with her hand still on the doorknob until the feeling passed that she was already home.

Sunday morning the late summer sky was overcast and darker cumulonimbus clouds gathered out over the sea. It was windy and likely to rain, but Louisa's luck held during her walk up Manor Road around 10:00 a.m. as the storm didn't yet break and she arrived dry at Martin's kitchen door.

She opened it gingerly, and snuck into the home. The atmosphere in Martin's house was still foreign to her, and it seemed she was almost more an invader than a woman visiting her…friend…or whatever he was. She shut the door and listened; no sound of movement above. She took a few steps into the kitchen, wondering if she dared to go upstairs and check up on him in his bedroom…that continual loop had not fully abated…when she saw a long, suited man sleeping on the sofa in the living area next to the kitchen.

Martin. What was he doing there? She drew closer and he was sleeping on his back, his body taking up nearly every inch of the sofa, his head resting on the gentle rise of one arm and his feet, still wearing shoes, elevated on the arm of the far other. She went into the front hall and saw his medical bag on the floor by the stairs, but she clearly remembered putting it into the surgery last night.

Back at the sofa, she sat down on the coffee table right next to it. He was alive and breathing though his face looked even worse this morning. His right eye was completely swollen shut, and bruises speckled his face with blue and purple. That lower right lip was roundly bulged out. He had no tie but wore the same suit. She espied bruising on his neck, sticking out from under his collar.

Sean MacPherson should rot in hell if hell existed, and for the first time in her life, Louisa hoped it did.

Louisa waited. She had no place else to go and nowhere else she wanted to go. She had called Aunt Joan earlier this morning and detailed last night's events; Joan was horrified and at some point today would, of course, visit.

It was quiet in the house, and restful. When they weren't fighting and were just here together, with one sleeping, it was relaxing and calm. Louise wryly concluded that if they were always together when one was sleeping their relationship might sail along smoothly.

She sat for about fifteen minutes and then Martin began stirring. His right hand came up and covered his face, lightly rubbing his fingers across the more colorful areas. It was a slow deliberate process, oddly sensual, and Louisa's unhelpful mind daydreamed her own face was underneath his hand.

"Martin, it's me," she said.

He moved his hand so he could see her and upon viewing his opened left eye Louisa stood aghast.

"You're eye! It's red! Oh, my god, I should call an ambulance!"

"It would be red with the hematomas—". He palpated the skin around his orb.

"—No, not your outer eye, not your skin, but the inside of your eye. It's all red."

"You mean the conjunctiva?"

"What?"

"The whites of my eye are red?"

"Yes, all the white. Every single bit of white."

"Subconjunctival hemorrhage. Not unexpected."

"Is it dangerous? Can you see?"

"No, and yes. It's not important. Just a bruise of the eye."

She sat warily back down, still a little freaked out. "You look like a zombie with it."

He didn't respond, just kept his one good eye gazing at her.

"What are you doing here? Last I saw, you were going upstairs," she asked.

"I got a call middle of the night. 2:00 a.m. Johnny Boynter. Severe asthma attack, their nebulizer machine wasn't working, and they were out of albuterol."

"You had to get up, looking like that, in the middle of the night?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"They came and picked me up. I had a spare machine to give them, some vials of albuterol. I stayed until he was better."

"And when you got home, the climb once more up step mountain was too daunting."

"Yes."

Her heart suddenly expanded until it reached her scalp and filled her legs, her arms, until it seemed she had no other organ in her body but her heart, and that its only job, the only reason it beat, was to beat for Martin Ellingham. There was a little space on the sofa and she felt an unendurable desire to be closer to him. She needed the whole world to go away and leave the two of them alone, just one morning, just one hour. She scooted over, next to his side.

"Martin….what am I to do with you?"

He looked at her and asked, "Is it true, what Bert said last night, that you went Bodmin over me?"

"Yes, it's true. MacPherson was throttling you. I…I, hit him with Joe's baton until he let you go."

His eyes were useless to her now, one shut and one a disgusting, monstrous red. There could not hypnotize her now, but Martin seemed to know that on some level. He reached up and touched her face, like she had a moment ago imagined, and murmured, "Thank you."

When he wasn't yelling, Martin had a very mellow voice, its tonal qualities sweet and lulling, and it was simply the final straw in her psyche which broke her resistance, and all her love poured out.

"Oh, Martin, I hope it doesn't hurt," she said, as she lowered her lips to his, the left uninjured side, but she pressed hard, she couldn't stop, the compulsion overcame her. His right hand fell to her back, pressing her close, and then it climbed up to her neck, setting off a wild sensation of tingling ecstasy in Louisa. He slowly massaged her neck, and then lost his hand in her hair, clutching her to him. The thrill of his touch went down her spine, and ignited her womb. She held onto his broad shoulder, loving his solidity, his masculinity. When they broke, she kept kissing him, finding all the areas devoid of bruises, his nose, his forehead, his hair, and once more, his lips.

Louisa's whole body was singing, and it dawned on her that like Marsha, she herself knew "a thing or two." She sat by the zipper of his trousers, her cunning right hand on his chest, and her fingers began an unknown journey travelling south when abruptly a gigantic rumbling erupted from Martin's stomach, some sort of gastrointestinal volcano that seemed to hit one hundred decibels.

His eye opened and Louisa regrettably sat up, Martin still holding her arm.

"What was that?" she asked.

He broke full contact with her, and the sizzling energy dancing between them sadly ceased. He rested his hand on his stomach. "Sorry, sorry. I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday. Migrating motor complex."

"Migrating motor what?"

"Stomach growl."

"Oh."

It was then that Aunt Joan, Peeping Tomming from outside the kitchen window, felt it was appropriate to go inside. She'd arrived a few minutes ago and had been watching them since Louisa had moved over onto the sofa. Her maternal and female instincts had guided her to not interrupt. She sighed. She had known deep, eternal love in her life and unlike some fairy tale, it had not ended happily ever after for either her or John. Love could hurt as much as bless. She worried about both Martin and Louisa. She hoped they knew what they were doing, but already Joan was sure they did not. Nonetheless, her food was getting cold.

She knocked and entered. "Hello!"

Louisa stood up as Joan put both her food container and a little dinner tray down on the wooden kitchen table. "Quiche, quite delicious," she announced. Louisa tried to motion her away when Joan came over to Martin.

"Er, his eye-" Louisa began.

"Hmm?" Joan said, moving passed Louisa to get to her beloved nephew. "Louisa told me about last night, Martin, and I think it was bloody stupid—Good God!" Aunt Joan took a step back, nearly stumbling over the coffee table, pointing at his eye.

"Should we call an ambulance? His eye, it's all red!" Joan exclaimed.

"Subconjunctival hemorrhage," Louisa explained. "It's all right, just a bruised eyeball."

"Can you see, Martin?" Joan asked.

Martin sighed, "Yes."

"He's very hungry," Louisa said. "You should hear his stomach growl. Hasn't eaten since lunch yesterday."

"Oh dear. Well, get him sitting up and I'll bring him a plate."

That was easier done. Louisa went over to Martin, but the pains in his left side were so extreme that neither he alone, or with Louisa's help, could budge him upright. Any movement was too agonizing and she didn't have the strength to lift him herself.

They gave up and Louisa grinned, "I could feed you with a spoon."

It was a bit captivating to watch Martin frown with his face all bumpy and blue. He rather turned into some irritated Muppet.

The kitchen door knocked again and when Joan opened it, Bert and Al were there.

"What good luck! Bert, Al, go help Louisa lift Martin up into sitting."

"And hello to you, Joan," Bert said. He sniffed upon entering the kitchen, "What's that fine smell?"

"Quiche, from fresh farm eggs," Joan said.

"If there's any extra, I'd love a bite."

"Dad, you've eaten breakfast, already," Al, said.

"Mid-morning snack, son. Keep my strength up," he said. "Let's go help the doc. How's he doing then, Louisa?"

She started to warn the Larges, too, about the eye, but again, they were already passed her and at Martin's side.

"We thought we'd stop by and see the remnants of MacPherson's rage—Oy!"

Bert said. "Your eye!"

"That's pretty nasty, Doc," Al agreed, "Never seen anything like that."

"Should we call an ambulance, Louisa?"

She rolled her eyes. "No. It's fine. If you can please lift him up."

"Can you see out of it, Doc?"

"Yes, yes, he can. Really, please just lift him up."

It was still difficult and the extent of pain Martin was in flew out into the open; he couldn't try to hide it anymore. Bert and Al moved around a bit trying to get leverage, and put arms here, then there, and then with a significant Oomph! from them, and a significant yelp of pain from Martin, the doc was sitting up, leaning against the back of the sofa, his left arm stuck firmly to his left side, a little bit of sweat on his forehead.

"Smarting a bit, there, hmm?" Bert nodded.

"Yes."

"Well," Bert said, pleased with himself. "Lucky we stopped by, eh? It's nice having good neighbors."

"You can go now," Martin said through clenched teeth.

"I think we should stay a little longer in case you need our assistance again."

"Plus you want some quiche," Al added.

"Win-win for all, son," Bert smiled.

Joan put the tray over Martin's lap, a plate of quiche and a plate with whole grain toast on top of it, and a cup of hot tea. He closed his eyes, and did some deep breathing, as deep as he could, seeming to wait until his throbbing lessened, and then took the fork and started eating.

Joan served Bert as well, as Al and Louisa stood by trying to unobtrusively watch the Doc.

The door knocked again. Louisa answered it and Eddie Rix and three other fishermen were there, caps in their hands, looking abashed and somewhat ashamed.

"Is the Doc here?" Eddie asked.

Louisa always tried to be honest. She knew Martin didn't want visitors even when he felt well, however, four people were already there, so it was impossible to prevaricate. She was left with admitting, "Yes."

Eddie pointed his head to the men in back of him. "We'd like to offer our apology to him."

"He's eating breakfast," Louisa said.

"Won't take long. We can't rest until our consciences are clear."

So much for being alone with Martin. For one moment, Louisa had a Martin Ellingham moment—a second where she felt terribly intolerant, terribly impatient, terribly irritable at everyone there. So, that's how it feels, she pondered, but it passed right away, and her innate social nature came back to the surface.

"Alright." She opened the door wider and the four fishermen came in, giving short hellos to Joan, Bert and Al. They noticed the Doc and went over to him.

"Go away," he said to them.

"Doc, we represent the fishermen at the bar last night—God! I've never seen an eye like that! I mean the closed one, sure. But, look at it, lads, the red one."

The men all leaned in to stare at Martin's eye. Louisa was sure if the eye had

the ability to blast out a laser beam, the men would have already been vaporized.

Louisa called out, "I think it's best if you move on to the apology."

Al mumbled, "Five quid says a fisherman winds up with a fork in his arm."

Bert disagreed, "Nah, the Doc's bark is worse than his bite."

Eddie continued, "Where was I? Oh, yeah," but his mind wandered again, "….Bloody hell, never seen an eye like that."

"Looks like a zombie's eye," one of the fisherman added. Louisa jolted hearing that and grabbed Joan's arm to relay her similar view, but regained her sanity and decided against it. Things had to stay focused.

"The apology, Eddie!" Louisa ordered.

"Right, right. So, we represent the fishermen. Evan wanted to come but he's got a wicked hangover. Got any suggestions for that, Doc?"

"No."

Eddie was nudged deeply in his side by one of his mates. "We're here to sincerely apologize for not paying close attention to what was going on in the bar. We may have indulged in a bit too much imbibing. We did jump to it when PC Penhale called the alarm, but MacPherson had already had his way with you. You depended on us, and we let you down. We're sorry, aren't we lads?"

The three other men "Aye'd" in concert.

"Go away," Martin repeated. "Leave me alone."

"We want you to know we're ready to do any other favor you ask us in the future. Make up for our indiscretion."

"I've a favor you can do—" Martin started, his still raspy tone lowering deeply.

"—Good, good, that's all good," Louisa said. "Thank you, Eddie. Please tell the rest of the fishermen Martin appreciates the apology."

"No, I don't," Martin said.

It would have been easier to get the fishermen out of the kitchen, when Louisa hustled them to the door, if, when she opened it, Alan Gibson had not been there with fist raised to knock. He blocked the entire door frame.

"Is Doc Ellingham in?" he asked Louisa.

"Over there," Eddie said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.

Louisa felt she was suddenly in a Marx Brother movie and Harpo was going to leap out of the pantry and blow his horn.

"Too bad we didn't bring any balloons or hats," Bert said, to Al. "We could have arranged a little party at the Doc's."

Joan retrieved the dinner tray, pleased at least in all the craziness that Martin had eaten the food. His light appetite always confused her with his height and lightly stocky frame.

"Thanks, Aunt Joan," he said.

"Of course."

Alan Gibson didn't wait for Louisa's permission to come in, he simply softly flowed through the fishermen-one of whom had poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle—without disturbing them, as only a karate and Aikido expert could do.

He stood in front of Martin and his sure voice rang out strong, "I'm a little disappointed in you, Doc Martin. Oh—!" he narrowed his vision, "Subconjunctival hemorrhage. Worst one I've ever seen. I'd put some ice on it, Doc. Now, I'm not sure why you choose to confront Sean MacPherson on the weekend I was gone. I would have helped you in that regard. It displeases me to see a defenseless person attacked by an expert; it was unfair of him to do so. In the future, if you wish to repeat the scenario with another victim of domestic violence, I hope you will ensure I am present at the time to maintain control and defend those in the right who need protection." He ended his speech, paused for a couple of seconds, and inserted one last zinger, "Melanie wishes you well. She has not recovered fully from her prepubescent obsession of you, but has developed the habits and maturity to no longer act upon them."

"What!" Louisa asked, having clearly listened in.

"Good day," Alan said, and at least he had the courtesy to leave. Two of the four fishermen were still lounging around the kitchen.

Louisa stood over Martin, "Melanie Gibson is obsessed with you? Isn't she, fifteen? What, exactly, did she act out?"

"Not now, Louisa."

Louisa realized that jealousy was a natural state of life, given certain situations.

But, to extend it to a teen-ager was ridiculous, and she let that weird bit of information pass.

"You could go to jail for that, Doc," Bert called out.

"All of you, get out of my house," Doc answered. Louisa saw him leaning back against the sofa, a rare sighting of a disabled, helpless Martin. It was doubtful he could stand and chase everyone away, and she supposed he was boiling over inside being so annoyed and so prostrate.

"You two, out you go," she waved to Eddie and his mate. "Let's go. He needs his rest."

The two of them politely departed, so just Bert, Al and Joan remained. That was more manageable.

Martin's phone rang then, the cell in his breast pocket. He let it ring, his right arm stuck to his side; Louisa plucked it out of the pocket and answered it. The usual "Yes?", "Oh, hello," "Uh-huhs", "Really?" etc., type comments filled the room for a few minutes, and Louisa ended with "That's wonderful news!" before hanging up the phone and plopping it down on the coffee table.

"What was the call about?" Joan asked.

Louisa smiled broadly. "Really fantastic news! That was Mrs. Middleton, who helped Pauline bring Helen MacPherson to the shelter. Helen apparently is welcoming all the help the shelter is offering. She's met other women, and sees an out to her misery. They're all very happy for her. Helen has decided to stay at the shelter until she's learned how to proceed on her own." Louisa turned to Martin, resting with both eyes shut, "Martin, this is wonderful news."

He grunted.

That grunt was inscrutably ambiguous. Did it mean he was too debilitated to comment further, that with his injuries even speaking cost him too much? Or, was it that he didn't actually care? Did he only care about doing his job, curing his patient—in this regard, removing Helen from her abusive household—and not at all about the consequences and how she thrived afterwards? Were they back to his seeing patients only as bodies and not as integrated humans? Would he really put his life on the line as he did last night, solely to "cure" a body? If so, it was still noble, she believed, but there was a taint to the nobility.

Joan agreed with Louisa and they spent some minutes with Bert and Al in conversation about Helen's new beginnings, just long enough until the kitchen door knocked once more.

"Who's it now?" Louisa asked.

It was PC Penhale, in his uniform and belt, but without the baton hanging off. "I came back to report on last night's malefactor," he said, entering the kitchen and noticing Martin on the sofa. "Is that the Doc, over there?"

"No, it's his doppleganger," Bert said. "Of course, it's the Doc."

"I didn't know you knew the word doppleganger, dad," Al admitted.

"There are unknown depths to me, son. Dark and mysterious depths."

"'Dark and mysterious' as a medieval plague," Joan muttered.

Before PC Penhale could take a step, Louisa put her hand on his chest, stopping his motion. "Martin's eye is red. Very red. Do not be surprised or comment on it."

Penhale scoffed. "No problem. I've seen things in my life, Louisa, that many would get nightmares over." He walked to the sofa and put his hands on his belt. Martin opened his left eye and Penhale leapt back a foot. "Blimey! I didn't know eyes could do that. Can you see out of it, Doc?"

Louisa sat down at in a kitchen chair, sighing deeply. If she was this tired, Martin must be utterly exhausted. "Get on with it, Joe," she said.

"Right. I thought you'd like to know that Sean Scott MacPherson, age 45, is being held at Bude and will be transferred on Monday to main headquarters. I've spoken to Chief Superintendent Dewhurst and he has alerted the CID to investigate the bar incident and collect all the charges against MacPherson. The list should include domestic violence, battery, attempted murder, resisting arrest; all quite serious. Felonies. He'll be in jail a long time. You did well, Doc. We're quite the team."

"We're not a team. You're a bumbling idiot. Go away."

"I know you're saying that because you're under the weather. Everyone no doubt gets a little testy when their eyes are so disfigured. I'll let you go, and when you're better, I'd like to share a celebratory drink with you. With us working together, the town is efficiently covered regarding medical and policing situations."

"Oh, god." If someone had been pulling out Martin's fingernails, it didn't seem it'd be as tormenting as having PC Penhale talking to him.

Louisa chimed in, "Lovely sentiments, Joe, quite lovely. But, yes, Martin does need his rest. Thanks for coming over. Better get back on your beat."

"As you say, Louisa. Can't let the thugs and hoodies think they can run about free. Bert, Al, Aunt Joan."

She essentially pushed him out the door, closed it, and locked it, sending whatever hint to the universe she could to have it bother someone else. She went back to Martin, still stuck sitting up.

"Do you want Bert and Al to lie you back down?"

"No."

"How about take you up to bed?"

"No."

"We should put ice on your eyes, and, er, all over your face."

"Later."

"What do you want to do now."

"Nothing. Not move. Be left alone." He fumbled with his trouser pocket and took

out the prescription bottle of pain pills.

"I'll get some water," Louisa said, after putting two pills in his hand.

He gulped down the pills and sank further into the couch. Louisa felt inadequate; she really didn't know what to do. Then the universe played a trick on her. It ignored the kitchen door and rang the bell at the front door.

Martin's head shook from side to side.

"With all the coming and going, I think the Americans would say, 'It's like Grand Central Station'', Bert said.

"Do they?" Al answered. "Interesting. What's Grand Central Station?"

"I have no idea," his father said.

"Where's it at?"

"No clue."

"Unbelievable," Louisa muttered as she dragged her feet to answer another door but her one word, given the conversation she'd just been forced to endure, had two separate applications.

For the first time that morning the visitor was entirely welcomed. He was a medium height, slightly chunky fellow, going bald, with a friendly face. "Hello, I'm looking for Martin Ellingham."

"Dr. Parson! It's me, Louisa. We met at the hiring committee for Martin."

"Ah, yes. I remember. Wondered about his bedside manner and got an acute glaucoma diagnosis."

"Please, come in," she said. The rain was beginning to pour down and Chris didn't hesitate.

"Nasty weather for a summer day," he said. "So, where's Martin? I've been in Spain on holiday for three lovely weeks, and just got back yesterday. Heard about his saving the child and bringing someone back from the dead. Thought I'd stop by and chat about it."

"Well…more has happened in the meantime."

"Oh?"

"Come this way."

She led Chris into the kitchen and pointed at Martin. Chris's eyes widened so dramatically that they nearly pushed his nose and mouth entirely off his face.

"What the _hell_…?" He ran the last few steps to the sofa, sitting down on the coffee table. "Martin, I heard you got scuffed by an automobile saving that child, but did you hit the car with your face?"

Martin opened his left eye. "Chris," was all he felt he could manage.

"My God, what happened to your bloody eye? We should have an ophthamologist examine that. It's got to be the worst subconjuctival hemorrhage in the history of medicine. What _happened_ to you?"

There was a certain assuagement of her anxiety knowing that another physician was here, a competent one, and best of all, Martin's closest friend. He would take care of him in ways that Louisa couldn't. Martin would be okay. Her shoulders lifted and her eyes filled with water from relief.

Martin turned to her, "Louisa, tell him what happened."

Pulling herself together, she recapitulated the entire story to Chris whose mouth hung open throughout the tale. She pointed at Martin at the end, "…and there he is." Chris shook his head back and forth what seemed a thousand times.

"I don't believe it. I don't know what to say. And, he hasn't been seen by any physician?"

"Not yet."

"How long was he unconscious?"

"I don't know. A minute, maybe two."

"It was my quick thinking actions what brought him around," Bert interjected.

"Bert, sssh," Joan said.

"Did he suffer a concussion? Any post-concussive symptoms?"

Louisa couldn't answer and everyone stared at the Doc. "No," Martin said.

"And you base that on…." Chris wondered.

Martin shrugged.

"Helpful, Martin. And, next he was punched in his back, possibly over his kidney. That blow alone demanded a medical evaluation. How many renal arteries have you reattached, Martin? You're IQ is the highest of anyone's I know and you're still a bloody fool. What if you had hematuria?"

"Had that last night."

Chris laughed in disbelief. "Overt or occult?"

"Overt."

"Really? Overt? Great, let's have you internally bleed to death on your sofa."

"There's no sign of that, no tachycardia, tachypnea, light-headedness, shortness of breath."

"But, if there had been, during the night, while you were sleeping….you could have died without awakening. What about this morning? Any more hematuria?"

"Haven't urinated yet."

"And your side, the way you're holding it. Broken ribs?"

"99% certain."

"Any pneumothorax, hemothorax?"

"Martin said nothing.

"Idiot," Chris said, his lips drawn together in disapproval.

Louisa had watched their conversation back and forth like a verbal tennis match. She didn't understand any of the medical terms, but it was obvious that Chris was listing possible medical complications and Martin was not able to state emphatically he didn't have any of them. She grew nervous again.

"Can you examine him?" she asked Chris.

"Examine him? I'm not in clinical practice anymore, and when I was, I was an orthopedic surgeon."

"Ah, a bone doc. I've got a recurrent pain back here..." Bert said, clasping his hand over his lumbar spine.

"Not now, dad," Al implored.

"Bert, shut up," Joan agreed.

"Martin was a vascular surgeon and he can do exams," Louisa said.

"That's because he's a master diagnostician, probably has a photographic medical memory, and I've not got either of those traits."

"Still, you're here now…"

"And an ambulance can be here within the hour. Or, we can just tie him up, carry him out to my car and take him ourselves."

Martin surprised them all, "If you find something significantly positive, I'll go. Willingly."

Chris sighed heavily.

"It's a start," Louisa negotiated. "Will you?"

"Will I incompetently examine one of my best friends for internal wounds which could be serious or life-threatening?"

The question could have been phrased in a more reassuring manner. "Yes…"

"Why not?" Chris said, giving up. "Why the hell not?"

He stood. "Alright, stand up, Martin. I'll go find a urine cup in your surgery. We'll start with a U/A, and then do the exam. You'll probably have to guide me a little. Or, a lot."

Martin grunted.

Chris left the kitchen and Martin leaned forward, putting his left hand down on the sofa. The sofa cushion gave quite a bit and he didn't really create the resistance to push up effectively from it. That failed attempt seemed to drain his battery near to empty.

"I think he needs us again," Al said.

"I think so, too," Bert said.

Louisa, Joan, Bert and Al watched Martin scoot a little forward, pause, and then move a little forward again. He dared remove his right arm from protecting his left chest and put both hands down on the sofa. But, the pain was too intense and he couldn't even attempt to rise, and his right hand went back in it's previous place of injury, and he sagged forward, the sofa seeming to encase his large body like he was being wrapped in a cocoon.

As Chris came back holding a little cup, Martin spit out, "I need a hand!"

The three men gave six and Martin was standing, unsteadily.

Chris said, "You know the rule. If you can't get out of bed to get to the loo, you're in hospital."

"My mattress is firm. It's easier to get out of my bed than this sofa."

Louisa's insatiable mind immediately logged the bed data in her secret Martin files. The good news was she also liked firm mattresses.

"Right, then, you've got a toilet off the waiting room." Chris held up the cup. "Give us a sample. Then get in the surgery and undress to your shorts."

"Words you've always wanted to say yourself," Bert whispered to Louisa.

"How _dare_ you!" she answered, her tone, she hoped, illustrating how insulted and affronted she was. That Bert said something like that, and with others around! Worse, how did he know? She felt her face warming and prayed her blush wouldn't be as bad as it had been with Marsha. If it was, and she keeled over, at least there were two doctors in the house.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The exam took a long time and it was kind of the Larges to stay around for the probability of needing to help Martin get back upstairs. They waited in the kitchen and living area, Al turning on the telly to watch a football match.

Eventually, Chris Parsons came out of the surgery alone and quickly found them.

"U/A did contain +4 blood, but Martin said there was no overt hematuria—that is, visible blood in his urine-so as long as the U/A clears in another day or two, he should be fine." He sighed. "After twenty attempts, I got the ophthalmoscope to cooperate and show me the retina of his left eye. His right could not be pried open. No retinal tears or detachment or other damage seen. His vision is still 20/20 and I'm one year younger than him and already require the reading glasses he doesn't yet need. Let's see. His left torso is a rainbow of colors; ghastly, really. Did a full respiratory exam, with Martin's help, which I haven't done since my residency. Full expansion bilaterally, negative tactile fremitus, negative bronchophony and egophony, and breath sounds are normal.

"Is that still English?" Bert asked.

"His lungs seem fine," Chris summarized. "Palpation and vibration test seems to show two broken ribs, both closed and in alignment, although one damn chest x-ray would be a million times better than my blithering around."

"Did you find anything that scares you or makes you feel Martin must be in hospital?" Louisa asked.

"I really want to lie and say 'Yes'".

"But…"

"But, I think if he wants to stay home and muddle through this on his own, he deserves each and every peripheral nerve cell shooting pain signals into his brain, and he'll survive."

"Again, is that English?" Bert asked.

"Yes, Bert, it's English," Aunt Joan spat out testily.

"Not the English I speak."

"As for me, I'd hie to hospital in an instant and soak in morphine dreamland for several days, if I was him," Dr. Parson said. "But, then again, who's like him?"

"Is he coming out?" Aunt Joan wondered.

"He's not that quick in dressing or undressing. He also can't lift his left arm very high. Doing that uses the muscles over his ribs; not good. The deal I've struck with him is that he goes back upstairs to his bedroom and rests. I'm assuming that one or two of you can supply him with food three times a day."

"Yes, no problem," Aunt Joan and Louisa said. One thing about being headmistress at the school meant that Louisa could go late a few days, turning over her early morning responsibilities to other administrators and teachers. Given Martin's situation, which she was sure the entire town knew by now, people would be accommodating.

"And keep me informed. I'll give you both my cell phone number. Amuse me by checking in daily and I'll come back next weekend. Make him blow up a balloon four times a day, and let me warn you, he won't like it. Last, try to keep ice over the upper half of his body and on his face for the next couple of days."

"He's lucky to have you as a friend," Louisa said.

"Ah, without getting maudlin, that goes both ways."

A few minutes later Martin plodded out of the room. He stood in the hallway, looking at them down the hall from ten feet away, having no inclination to walk closer.

"Now, start climbing, Martin. Up you go!"

Martin walked through his waiting room as the five of them came around the other narrow hallway from the kitchen, to meet Martin at the stairwell.

"We'll watch you, for safety," Aunt Joan encouraged.

"Course if he falls backwards, I think he'll take us all out," Bert said.

Aunt Joan, Chris and even the mild Louisa sang out as a choir a recurrent verbal response that had been instituted regarding Bert's comments, "Shut up!"

"I see the tide has turned against me," he said to Al.

Martin began his slow climb, and perhaps the pain pills and the food he'd eaten and his kidneys being a bit better made a positive impact. He was able to go up on his own, after figuring out the best methodology. He stepped up with his right leg, and used that stronger, healthy side to pull the rest of his body up. Then he paused on each step, took a breath or two, and repeated the process. It was like the ascension of a toddler, but no one dared joke about it. He made it to the top and without a word went into his bedroom on the left, and closed the door behind him.

"He's not much for good-byes, is he?" Bert asked.

"I guess we can be going," Al said. "Come on, dad. We've got a plumbing job we promised to do today."

"Thanks, Bert, Al, for helping out," Louisa said.

"Our pleasure," Bert said. He and Al went out the front door.

Louisa was indebted to the Larges, but with their departure the house was finally getting quiet, and it was heavenly.

"I"d better check on him one last time before I go," Chris said. He leapt up the stairs, knocked on the bedroom door and entered. The conversation was too muffled to hear.

While he was upstairs, Louisa and Joan went into the kitchen and over a cup of tea figured out their shifts for feeding Martin. Louisa would take breakfasts, Joan lunches, and they would rotate suppers. If anything was a problem, they'd leave notes for each other on the table; leaving out the fact that probably the main problem they'd be dealing with was Martin himself.

Chris returned, informing them that Martin was in bed in his pajamas. Much to the ire of his friend, Chris forced Martin to show him he could get out of it, and walk to the loo, and then get back into bed. Martin, with a cacophony of grunts, groans, moans,

and curses, had proved he was ambulatory enough.

"I brought several urine cups and his U/A sticks up there. He needs to check his urine daily. He'd appreciate it if you bring up his stash of medical journals—keeps them in the living room. Ah, that looks like them." There was a pile of magazines by the TV. "But, he should mostly sleep. I saw his medication. He self-prescribed a pretty strong dose of Percoset. He should have at maximum eight tablets a day. Don't let him drive on them. And no alcohol or extra Paracetamol. Give a call if he seems to have any odd type of reaction on them."

"Like what?" Aunt Joan asked.

"The list of side effects is a couple of pages long. Just anything that's off."

"We're so grateful you came. You have no idea how much a help you've been," Louisa said.

"That's good. I'm glad. Nice to see you, Louisa, and meet you, Aunt Joan."

They chatted a moment more, and then Chris departed, ducking due to the storm, as he pulled up his raincoat collar and ran to his car.

Louisa volunteered to bring up the magazines, and she climbed the stairs in a state of glorious anticipation. Martin's bedroom! Finally! By no means the manner in which she had wished to first see it, but still, she was excited. She knocked gingerly and when there was no answer, opened the door inch by inch, sticking her head in first. The light was off and Martin was already asleep. Her mind ticked off everything: King-size bed, blue pajamas, sleeps on the right side, sleeps on his back, dresser against the wall, bathroom attached. She put the magazines on his night table and slipped over to his suit closet and carefully opened it, feeling a bit like…well, an erotomaniac stalker…and glancing at Martin to ensure he didn't catch her prying. There were his suits, all lined up in display, and she leaned forward to see if she could catch any manly, Martinish smell. Odorless. Disappointed, she shut the closet and walked back to him. She smiled. Her imaginary continual loop had not quite pictured his bedroom correctly. Now, she had the exact accurate view-the colors, the placement of furniture, the windows- to implant in her brain and use in her daydreams. More importantly, she would never forget the view of him, (minus the bruising), lying there demurely, waiting for a woman to look down with love upon him, and prove it through her sensual motions, and the mutual gratification of their joining. She hoped one day her imagination would become reality, and seeing him lying in his bed she began to fantasize about other, equally enjoyable, positions…. She kissed his hair, so silky and peach-fuzzy, and left the room.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Louisa ascended the stairs carrying the food tray holding Martin's breakfast at 8:30 am the next morning. He was a creature of dietary habits—there was one soft-boiled egg, two pieces of whole grain toast, and a pot of tea. Also, a packet of balloons Dr. Parsons as had ordered.

She hoped he was awake and, leaning against the door enquired, "Martin?"

"Come in," she heard.

It took a little doing but she got the door open without dropping the tray and entered. Putting the tray down on his dresser she asked, stunned by what she saw, "What are you doing?"

Martin was resting against the wall near his wardrobe, almost fully dressed in a grey suit. His trousers and shirt were on, but his tie hung like a ribbon around his neck and his jacket lay over a chair. His right arm was wrapped around his chest, he was pale, and he actually seemed close to falling over. His face looked no better and the ecchymoses on his neck seemed even darker.

"Getting ready for surgery," he said.

"Surgery? You've got no patients today. Get back into bed."

"No patients? I checked on Friday. I had a full schedule this week."

"They all cancelled. All your patients have cancelled this week. Your voicemail was filled this morning."

"Cancelled? All of them? But, I haven't fired Pauline!"

Louisa calmly explained, "Martin, your patients didn't cancel out of anger, to shun you. They cancelled to give you some more days to rest and recover. Thats what people in Port Wenn do."

It struck him dumb for a key few seconds, but then his clinical responsibilities rallied. "But, I need to see Jason Boynter—"

"—Johnny."

"-Johnny, whoever, to check on his asthma. He should have allergy testing done. And, Mrs. Whatshername, I need to see if her atrial fibrillation is under control. And, that fat man from Wales, his glucose numbers have been out of control."

"The way you talk, it's almost as if you cared about your patients."

"Of course I do! I'm their doctor!"

"Just not about them as people."

"How would that help them medically?"

"Your patients exist merely within the confines of your job."

"Exactly."

She frowned. "I don't understand. How you live your life with that attitude. It seems dehumanizing. I'd really like to talk about it more."

"Why?"

"Wouldn't it be good for me to understand you better?"

"I'm not hard to understand."

"Now that's the under-statement of the year."

He sagged further into the wall, and sighed deeply. "Not now, Louisa."

"Not now, because?"

"Because, I'm hungry, and my side hurts."

Louisa's emotions were notoriously changeable and in that second she went from growing agitation to supreme regret, and her accommodating nature kicked in. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I've got your breakfast right here. Oh, and the balloons you need to blow up. Should you sit down in the chair or get back in bed? Did you do the urinanalysis this morning? Is your kidney improving? I have to report that to Dr. Parsons. Did you sleep through the night?"

"I'll sit here," and Martin collapsed down the wall and sat down hard, as if he had just run an Olympic marathon and his legs were butter.

She placed the tray on his lap, after having removed the teapot, which she kept on the dresser. She stayed in the room as he ate, refilling his teacup several times, and when he was done, put the tray back on the dresser.

"Thanks," he said. "Sorry you're playing waitress."

"I don't mind."

"Aren't you late for school?"

"Yes, but the school understands I'll be late coming in this week."

After a pleasant pause she snorted a little laugh, "I'm not sure how well your patients would have taken to seeing you like that, today. How many times can you bear being asked if you can see from your left eye?"

"Someone has to check on a few of them."

"Make a list and I'll have Pauline ring them up, see how they're doing. If there's a problem, we can ask for your advice, and if you feel they need to see someone we'll get them to Bude. How does that sound?"

He didn't wholly like it, but he agreed. Louisa made him blow up balloon which without a doubt, hurt. His grimaces and whole body tenseness was evident. But, he got it fully expanded and then let it compress in a rapid "whoosh".

"Four times a day. Why do you have to do that?"

"Prevents one from developing pneumonia. When one has fractured ribs, due to the resultant musculoskeletal pain, one tends to not fully inhale, and pleural fluid accumulation can occur-"

"—Got it. The balloons make you breathe in deeply."

"Yes."

"And your kidneys?"

"2+ hematuria. Improving."

She picked up the tray with all the breakfast materials on it. "I'll take this down. Get back into your pajamas and into bed. I'll bring up a notepad to list out your priority patients." She was still appalled at that face of his… "And some ice."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"Time heals all wounds," Louisa smiled at Martin when he unexpectedly came down to the breakfast she was preparing on Friday, moving much more loosely, and welcoming her with two open eyes.

"That is not necessarily true. Depending on the wound, the tissue may be too damaged or scarred to fully recover. Peripheral limb wounds may even require amputation,"

Things were back to normal. Louisa and Aunt Joan began stopped coming to Martin's and returned to their own routines.

Martin began seeing patients after his week at rest and although his face was still colorful, his right eye was open, and his kidney was fine. He didn't have all his normal energy but that just meant his expresso machine was on double duty.

His rib pain lingered and it would be months, he had told her, before they didn't send shooting stabs of paralyzing agony through his side if he moved wrong, or turned abruptly, bent down, got out of bed, or simply if he grew too tired. He was off the Percoset so he could drive and thus be exasperated by vexing patients calling him out of town for what turned out to be five minute visits for a minor malady. Then again, sometimes a serious situation arose, which justified his travel. Louisa was glad he could do all he needed to as a physician, as that seemed most important to him.

Helen was thriving at the shelter. Louisa had been allowed to visit her there once. Helen received counseling two days a week, and lessons on how to deal with finances and other aspects of life her husband had controlled. She made some female friends. She was ecstatic her husband was going to jail for many years, and she kicked her sister-in-law out of her house, in preparation of selling it and starting over anew in some other place, which her husband would not know. Louisa realized Helen MacPherson was one of the strongest women she had ever known.

She came over to Martin's home on Saturday afternoon.

"Come in," he said, ushering her in with an open arm. "Are you hungry? I'm making soup, and a chicken sandwich. There's enough for two."

"Thanks, sounds lovely."

She saw an old clock sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. "Another one?"

"It's done."

"It's different from the last one. I thought you said, after you finished that one, you'd maybe start something new," she looked down. She felt awkward when metaphorically referring to their feelings, which they both were so uncomfortable discussing.

"Yes. But, this one was sent with an urgent request from a shop in Chelsea."

"Will you get more 'urgent requests?'"

She looked up and saw his concentrated vision focused upon her; for how long, she didn't know. He raised his hand and once more touched her face, and her cheek rested against his palm. "I'll call and tell them not to send anymore."

"Thank you."

"Yes."

He lowered his hand, and her face felt…empty.

"I'll start the soup," Martin said. "Please, have a seat."

She sat and watched him prepare the meal for them. He could be happy working in quiet, but Louisa wanted them to communicate a bit more, in positive ways, proving to her they could. She told Martin about Helen's personal growth, and he answered, "Good."

Perhaps this was a turning point. His monosyllabic "Good" was a much better response than a grunt, she contemplated, and he hadn't made a nasty remark, either. Louisa was encouraged. Perhaps Martin had decided during his long days of bedridden recovery to spread his care about and cover his patients, their personal needs, and Louisa all underneath his broad wings. Her hope for them as a couple rose exponentially. Louisa smiled widely at Martin whenever he glanced at her.

The soup and sandwiches had just been served on the table when the front door bell rang.

Frowning, Martin excused himself and went to the door. On a whim, Louisa stayed out of sight down the hall from the opening, listening in as Martin opened it.

Wendy Alden, Bert, Al and a few others in tow stood closely together.

He looked down at the group and asked, impatiently. "What do you want?"

"Doctor Ellingham," Wendy began, deliberately using his full title and smiling broadly, "Given all the village has been through together in the last weeks, we wonder if you had reconsidered your decision to support the Summer Festival next weekend."

"No."

At that, Louisa started feeling like she was shrinking and would soon disappear.

"We're not talking financially, though, of course, it would be lovely if you choose to donate. We mean personal support."

"No."

He went to close the door but Wendy continued, "We've added a special award to the event, recognizing you as "Best Doctor Ever" in Port Wenn. We hoped you'd show up to accept the trophy, perhaps make a little speech."

Martin looked at Wendy as if she was a blue skinned alien being just materialized in front of him. "Absolutely not."

"But, we want to acknowledge you for what you did for Helen, for saving Peter Cronk's life, for your medical skills. We thought you'd be interested."

His being interested seemed incomprehensible to Martin and his eyebrows narrowed as he sincerely asked, "Why?"

Wendy fumbled, "Wouldn't you rather have a good relationship with the town? We're honoring you with an award!"

"I don't want it."

"But-!"

Martin closed his door. He saw Louisa standing in the hallway. "They ruined the soup. Split pea is distasteful cold."

Louisa stood there feeling crushed, and even insignificant. She felt terribly betrayed in a way she could not fully elucidate.

"You couldn't have accepted the award?" she asked, some heat in her words.

"No."

"After all you've been through, you simply couldn't just be nice to them?"

He stood silent for a few seconds. "After all I've been through, I'd rather try to just 'be nice' to you."

Those words paralyzed her as goose bumps tickled her skin. When she did not speak, he added, "I'll reheat the soup," and went into the kitchen.

Martin was Martin—he would always dissever himself from her beloved village. He might always have a personality of "absolute crap." But, she loved him so much and she so strongly wanted to believe that he loved her, too. But, she simply wasn't sure. And even if he did, was it enough? It was back to the tug of war ropes—but now, they caused her shoulders to actually ache from the strain. Which way was she to be pulled?

Louisa stayed motionless in the hallway, a part of her wanting to storm out and join the group of her mates, her villagers, the well meaning, good-hearted souls she had grown up and lived with her whole life. To her, some Port Wenn villagers exemplified the finest people on Earth.

Instead, irresistibly drawn by an invisible tractor beam that raised her umbrage, and made her heart shudder, Louisa Glasson followed Martin Ellingham back into his kitchen.

THE END


End file.
